Trial by Fire
by Hekateras
Summary: One does not leave the fire unscathed. The flames of love and heroics always leave their mark, on civilians and heroes alike, and as the Oblivion Crisis comes about some lives will be changed forever. A retelling of the MQ with more spice and twists.
1. Prologue

Thunder rippled through the snowy landscape as the thick crimson light swiftly chased away the shredded remains of blue in the sky. Swords clashed, steel and silver against the granite-hard daedric, heavy armored boots struggled to find purchase on the snow, molten in places by the heat of the Gates nearby. Blood sprayed fountain-like onto the slippery, sludge-like mixture of snow, mud and ashes as the soldiers of Cyrodiil stood their ground, the blows landing on their bodies ticking away the time left until utter defeat or bitter victory.

The vision shifted, diving into the flaming, rippling surface of the largest gate, chaotically sliding in between the spiky towers shooting up like daggers into the blood-stained sky. Hidden securely between a pair of gigantic gates stood the tallest tower of all, crowned with a radiating yellow light. A menacing siege machine with an inferno blazing in its mouth crawled slowly but steadily towards the looming Great Gate.

A figure, dark-clad and miniscule, sprinted across the bridge connecting two of the smaller towers. The figure skidded to a halt and turned, facing the dremora at its heels. It parried a crushing blow, staggering dangerously close to the edge of the narrow bridge, and kicked at the dremora, sending it toppling over into a hundred-foot fall.

The figure was now stumbling up a walkway hugging the inside of the great tower, limping with every step, a dremora arrow embedded in its upper leg. Its breath came in ragged gasps as its trembling hands sought support on the walls. The black armor was full of tears and rips, many growing patches of red. The cherry-red eyes had the haunted look of a chased animal to them, the bluish skin and the already red hair were matted with layers upon layers of blood, both its own and that of its enemies. Its features had the slightly angular look of elven heritage to them; arching eyebrows, somewhat slanted eyes, high, wide cheekbones, ordinary lips and an upturned nose with a very gentle bump on the bridge, far less pronounced than what was typical of the Dunmer.

The figure was now taking torturous steps to the brightly glowing orb several very long feet away. It stumbled, stretching across the floor, but miraculously, in a very slow, painful effort, rose up again, finally tearing the Great Sigil Stone away from its resting place atop the dais. The figure then collapsed, cradling the stone against the blood gushing wound in its chest as laces of flames ate away at the surroundings, each wave bringing more and more destruction and mayhem, the granite-hard walls crumbling and the dais ripped from the chains that held it up, a column of fire shooting up into the sky, the spine-like stairs ground into dust-...

_"For Lord Dagon!"_

Very abruptly, the vision gave way to an alternate reality, that of an assailant kicking open the heavy doors, intricate black armour glinting in the candlelight, the mace flashing as it struck down a guard. Behind it, several of its comrades battled four desperate Blades. The figure approached, then pounced, its masked face leering with eternal glee, the mace rushing forward to land the first and final blow.

The assassin fell, toppling majestically onto the luxurous carpet. A shimmering red momentarily veiled its body, then cleared, exposing a hooded figure clad in burgundy robes, the armor and weapon vanished without a trace. A throwing axe was embedded between its shoulder blades.

Retrieving her axe, Renault drew closer, followed by the remaining two Blades, the fourth lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

"Your Highness, you cannot stay here. We need to get you to a more secure location." Her voice was strained, but never lost the air of calm efficiency. Renault always kept a cool head, it seemed. "Our men are staging several distractions to aid your escape. We will take you through the secret passage leading out of the city." Her voice still held the respectful deference, but she never even pretended to ask for his permission. Emperor or not, keeping him safe was her duty and she preferred not to invite a direct order telling her otherwise. "Glenroy, check up ahead. Baurus, you take point."

Glenroy and Renault left the room, blades out and ready for any other unpleasant surprises the day had yet to offer. With Baurus behind him, Uriel followed, glancing wistfully at the dead Blade. Many more would die before this was over... And some would have an even higher price to pay.


	2. A Spoonful of Fate

For a very indeterminate while, it felt like another one of those restless nights, when you were still mostly asleep and only partially aware of getting tangled up in your bedsheets and half-heartedly trying to fight your way out of them, the disturbance not yet shaking you awake. Then, the darkness, dense and fuzzy like a pillow that's too big for you, reluctantly gave way to a very bleak awareness of _something._

A something quite like the dim discomfort of aching joints and muscles... The feeling of cold and stale air intruding into your nostrils... And a desperate throbbing of your temples as your face is pressed against the rough surface of what surely has to be cold, hard stone...

Liallan stirred, jerking slightly as she tried to will control back into her body. She was sprawled on the floor in an awkward pose, her cheek against the stones and her limbs spread out, her knee numb from digging into the hard surface for what must have been hours. Opening her eyes and lifting her head to get a better idea of her surroundings, she winced with pain as her head gave a splitting throb, then winced again when her surroundings became clear. She was looking up into a ray of meager light filtering through a tiny barred window high up in the stone wall.

_A _barred_ window. How perfectly wonderful._

Another glance revealed the rest of the interior, if you could call it that - a shabby wooden table with a prehistoric pitcher, a niche in the wall with something resembling a bedroll, some not-quite-ornamental chains with shackles reaching down from the ceiling and a few bones in the corner to keep her company. A torch that looked like it hadn't burnt for centuries - entirely possible, given the Imperial City's age - sat in a rusty steel sconce on the wall. Everything was just like in the book.

Her mind still reluctant to address any issue outside of her immediate surroundings, Liallan scrambled upright, sitting up and quickly noticing the impressive assortment of injuries on her body when she nearly collapsed again. She inspected herself, noticing she was still sporting the tattered and blood-stained remains of the tunic and breeches she had worn beneath the armor. The wounds on her body were not bruises as much as flesh wounds, none of them properly healed, a few looking and feeling like they could reopen any moment...

_Flesh wounds? Weren't prisoners always healed upon their arrival? They were, weren't they, you wouldn't someone sentenced to a lifetime spent in a filthy cage dying of wounds the next morning, unless..._

Very belatedly Liallan came to wonder how it was that she was in prison, but the memories that now flowed back to her quickly provided her with a reasonable and unpleasant explanation.

_Oh,_ that._ Damn it, damn it all to Oblivion._

She now remembered it all - the ambush, the 'proposition', as he had somewhat typically put it, her refusal and the ensuing struggle and bodies littering the ground when the Legion had come storming in... It was his word against hers, the word of an established if corrupt noble against one of a shady Dunmer, and with the corruption blooming through the ranks of the Guard, they hadn't needed much of a reason, anyway. Knowing Cornelicus - which she didn't, gladly, but his actions that night were enough of an indication - the guards had probably deliberately neglected to heal her when throwing her into prison. He probably intended for her to die here, quietly and without a fuss.

Now more than ever, she was determined not to let him have his way.

She couldn't stay here - not that she was planning to, anyway.

First things first. She had never had any remarkable grasp of magic, but there were things you just had to learn. Her eyes unfocused as her lips mouthed the incantation for a basic healing spell. She gathered her magicka and sent it forth into her body, waiting for the familiar prickle of flesh knitting itself together...

Nothing happened.

The bluish light was there, but it just dispersed into the dank air like fog in the breeze. Liallan stared. She then concentrated her efforts on the one pathetic destruction spell she knew, pressing the magicka to form heat in her palm...

Instead, she felt it pouring away from her like sand through the fingers.

Liallan sighed. A magic dead-zone, it seemed. _I've always wondered how they kept the magicians imprisoned. It seems I now have my answer._

Given that the magicka had to go _somewhere_ and the cell couldn't suck it up forever, a really powerful magician could probably blast the enchantment to Oblivion, given enough time, but she was pretty much helpless.

Liallan stood up, using the wall for support, and approached the barred door to her cell. The cell opposite of her was very dimly lit, but she could make out another figure. That, however, was of no immediate concern. She pressed her face to the bars, doing her best to glance sideways at the corridor. It looked to be empty. Liallan knitted her brows as she tried to think past the headache and recall what she knew of the Imperial Prison. Past the usual over-dramatized tales of how it was a place of despair, impossible to escape from, she remembered the layout of the Prison District, with one main guard tower leading towards the exercise yard and the dungeon. If she was fast enough...

"I must surely be dead and in the Halls of Azura to look upon such a vision," the scraping voice of the prisoner from the other cell interrupted her reverie. She peered into the dark as a figure edged closer to the bars, the gaunt and worn but still recognisable features of a Dunmer becoming visible in the pale light. "You're a pretty one to end up in prison, kinswoman. Guess you never expected such a turn of fortunes, eh?"

"Good day to you as well," Liallan scoffed. She decided not to antagonize the other Dunmer. If she were to escape, she would probably need to free him too, if only to prevent him from screaming for the guards just to spite her. Speaking of escape, she hoped they hadn't...

"Manners, eh? I guess that's pretty much the last thing you still have in this rathole. You'll quickly see how useless they are, manners have never bought anyone a ticket out of prison."

Damn, she was trying to think and his voice was seriously grating on her nerves! It certainly didn't make her headache better, either.

Liallan glared at him silently as she recollected her trail of thought. With speed and luck, she might be able to simply run out the dungeon and then out of the guard tower, cross the district without being shot full of holes - that part worried her most, since she wasn't exactly in top form - and then reach the bridge connecting the Prison District with the rest of the city. From there, she could cross the lake and hide in the wilderness. It probably would be more prudent to wait until nightfall to carry out her daring escape plan, if it weren't for three reasons: First, what glimpse of the sky she currently had allowed her no idea of what time it was, and her wounds certainly wouldn't be getting better. Second, come nightfall the guards in the Prison District would double their numbers, specifically for cases like her. Either way, she would have to run for her life, which would certainly be easier if less guards were chasing after her and if she could see where she was going. And third, she was more or less sanguine that Cornelicus wanted her dead, if only to prevent her from blabbering about his dealings with the criminal world. For all she knew, there wasn't much stopping him from simply marching into the dungeon and burning her to a crisp with a fireball, later spinning some woeful tale of self-defense and attempted escape. The less time she spent here, the better.

It was set, then. She would attempt to escape here and now, counting on her luck to make it past the guards. Hircine knows she'd had to run fast for long periods of time before. She could probably make it, even as injured as she was.

Of course, all of this would be largely hypothetical and academic unless she could first make it out of her cell.

She reached up for her hair. The bun tied at the top of her head was now catastrophically disheveled, tangled locks the colour of venous blood cascading all over her back and shoulders. With a smooth motion Liallan untied the remains of her ponytail, cringing as the Dunmer droned on.

"What, girl? You think there'll be beauty shows down here? Or are you maybe hoping to charm your way out of prison, by way of special favours, hmm? Abandon the thought, they may be happy to take whatever you can offer, but you're not coming out of here..."

She brushed through her hair, fingering several very tight braids with a very set purpose, and smiled at the comforting feel of the metal under her fingertips as she pulled out two lockpicks. She knelt at the cell door, snaking her hands around to bars to to grasp for the lock, only to find...

_Hells._

_No lock._

"...But don't let that put you off. One of the guards here owes me a favor, I could get us put into the same cell, if you're still so eager to have some fun."

Oh, Divines. Take a sour psychopath with a sick imagination and a passion for monologues and put him in a cage for who-knows-how-many years, and then give him someone to spill his guts to. Between his droning, her headache and the lack of a pickable lock in her door, the last shreds of goodwill had snapped.

"Only if that fun involves slitting your filthy throat, n'wah!"

He didn't miss a beat, sneering at her insult and the lengthy string of colourful Dunmeri curses that followed as she examined what was in place of a lock. Some kind of intricate indentation, humming softly under her fingertips. A magical lock... She had pretty much no idea what would unlock it, even less how to obtain that object...

"Noticed that, did you? Seeing that look on your face almost makes being here worth it all. You really never wondered how it is that the best, most cunning of criminals never escape the Imperial Prison? Figured they were all just imbeciles and you were so special? Welcome to the ugly, filthy reality, girl. The only person who ever made it out was some poor fetcher several decades ago and they never figured out how he did it.

It's a shame your mouth isn't as pretty as your face, lass, but I'm not one to complain. You'll certainly provide some entertainment once you snap, screaming obscenities at the guards until they put you down like a rabid nix hound, because that's what you are, a criminal s'wit like you. Yeah, you heard me. Very soon I'll be out of here, free to have run of the world again, but you, you're going to _die_ here, girl. I might sing a prayer for your rotting remains when I'm lying on a beach in Summerset and- _aaargh!_"

He yelped as the bone Liallan had tossed hit him on the temple, leaving what would become a nasty bruise.

Liallan turned her back on the Dunmer, ignoring him as he proceeded with his speech from a somewhat safer distance. She had no doubt she'd be able to pick up some valuable additions for her repertoire of curses from every race and culture, but she had more important things to worry about. The reasonable, methodical course of action having failed, she looked desperately around her cell. Her heart lurched when the iron sconce with the torch gave way upon grasping it, but nothing happened. She bit her lip in frustration.

Liallan strode resolutely to a corner and sat down, her knees pulled up, her arms hugging them, her back to the wall. She could stand the cold better than most Dunmer, but it was still very chilly, with the cold drafts from Lake Rumare easing through the window.

Doing her best to shut out the ramblings of the other prisoner out of her brain, Liallan heaved a sigh and resolved to wait for some sort of miracle to happen.

By way of luck, chance, and a healthy spoonful of fate, she didn't have to wait long.


	3. Another Day, Another Crisis

At thirty-nine, Baurus had seen his share of battles, assaults, and general things-going-completely-wrong-and-requiring-improvisation, otherwise he would've never been assigned the coveted prestigious position of one of Uriel Septim's select personal bodyguards.

There was always some sort of crisis going on, the only question was whether it was at your doorstep or far from home. In the case of the former, you always had to count with the possibility of things not going right, of assassins kicking down your door and ruining your day by attempting to kill the person you swore to protect.

Things like that just happened. Baurus could handle surprises, locked doors that were supposed to be open, dishes that were supposed to have been washed, and assassins out for his Emperor's life, even if they were obviously mindless fanatics and wore burgundy robes that turned into sinister daedric armour. If nothing else, he'd seen it all before, one way or another.

He had never seen anything like this.

There was practically a siege going on. Assassins had attacked the Imperial Palace, forming a tight ring around it to prevent anyone from escaping while a number of their comrades pressed their way inside. The fact that the Imperial Guard cut dozens of their numbers down did nothing to discourage them. Mindless and determined, they stood their ground at the palace doors, ready to act in the off chance their select comrades had failed.

It was truly fortunate that Baurus and the others hadn't needed to use the front entrance.

The small group had made its way to the cellar, cutting down any interposing assassins as they went, and then travelled through the sewer system to the Market District. They had climbed out, trusting a hastily acquired ragged cloak and the incoming cover of darkness to conceal the Emperor's identity from any stray eye. The majestic sight of Lake Rumare in the brilliance of the setting sun - which had a rare, somewhat fatalistic-looking reddish tint to it - was unappreciated for once as they hurried across the bridge and into the Prison District, moving past the few guards who hadn't gone to deal with the disaster at the foot of the Palace.

Captain Renault waved dismissively at the guard's inquiries as she brushed past him, opening the door to the dungeons. Uriel Septim removed his cloak, which wasn't doing a very good job, anyway, and followed her, flanked by Glenroy, with Baurus at their heels.

"Baurus, lock that door behind us," came Renault's stern, no-nonsense voice.

"Yes, Captain," the Redguard responded, having reached for the handle even before the order had come. The lock flashed brightly as Glenroy lit a torch.

As they descended the steps, treading carefully in the deceptive light, Baurus could hear the Emperor murmur softly,

"My sons... They're all dead, aren't they?"

Renault responded, sounding slightly disgruntled by the suggestion,

"We don't know that, Sire, the messenger only said they were attacked-"

"They're dead, I know it..."

Baurus shook his head silently at the sound of the Emperor's voice - gravely and resigned, just like he had so often sounded in the past few weeks, often without an obvious reason... While he held great respect for him and the memory of the Emperor's brighter days was still fresh in his mind, in the past few months he had been acting strangely, steadily growing more detached from reality. During the fight at his quarters, all he had done was stand at the window and gaze at his empire, only turning to face them after an assassin had kicked down the door with a cry - had there been something about Lord Dagon? He had simply stared in his direction, not quite seeing, showing no reaction as the fanatic had moved to kill, only to be put down by the Captain. Later, he had followed as if in a trance, seeming half-lost in his reverie even as Renault relayed the latest news to him, word of the assault on his three sons having arrived only minutes before the attack on the Emperor himself.

It had long become an unspoken agreement among his followers to humour the old liege, and by the barely audible sigh Captain Renault allowed herself Baurus could tell she was sharing similar thoughts.

"My job right now is to get you to safety," Renault stated to fill in the void that hung in the air rather than because it had needed to be said. Perhaps it was her elaborate way of reminding the Emperor that they really had other worries at the moment.

They walked through the narrow corridor. Baurus hung back slightly, glancing at the shadows in the stairwell behind them even though he knew he'd hear the sound of persuers opening the door long before he'd be able to see them.

The cells seemed to be empty, this was the more desolate section of the prison. Somewhere on his right, his memory told him, was a cranky old Dunmer by the name of Valen Dreth - once an accomplished thief and scammer, currently a pathetic wretch with a tongue sharp enough to stab you in the gut. It was truly ironic that the cell with the secret passage they were intending to use lay right across from him and Baurus expected that the Dunmer would have a few choice words to say about the coincidence.

After a few more moments' walking they had reached the place. Glancing sideways, Baurus saw the former thief sulking in the shadows of his cell. You only needed so much time spent in prison to learn to stay out of trouble and keep out of everyone's way. At the door to the opposite cell, Renault was fumbling with the locks and the peculiar-looking magic crystals that served as keys..

"What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is _supposed _to be off-limits!" she suddenly called out, her voice tense and apprehensive as she whirled to confront Glenroy, the poor soul.  
"The usual mix-up with the Watch, I-" Glenroy stammered as Baurus shifted his postion to look over the other Blade's shoulder. Indeed, there was a prisoner in the cell, backed up against the far wall, his or her face effectively obscured by the gloom, the sunset light trickling shyly through the window barely strong enough to even hint at the unwanted presence.

"Never mind. Let's get that gate open," said Renault with a very faint sigh, resigning to yet another something-that-hasn't-gone-as-planned. And naturally required improvisation. "Stand back, prisoner! We won't hesitate to kill you if you you get in our way," she called to the figure in the cell as the barred door swung open. It was a moot point, the way Baurus saw it. If anyone was crazy enough to rush three armed and armoured men - or two men and one woman, admittedly, - a warning probably wouldn't do much good. Besides, the prisoner had already moved as far from the trouble as the walls allowed.

Glenroy and Renault walked in, the male Blade lighting the way and keeping a watchful eye on the prisoner - a Dunmer woman, Baurus could now tell, standing tall and slim and taut as a bowstring ready to snap. The Captain turned her back, pulled at the iron sconce on the wall, and without releasing it reached up with her other hand, pressing hard at an unconspicuous-looking rock and shoving it sideways. Baurus could hear the tell-tale sound of stone grinding against stone as the niche in the wall cleared to reveal an earthy passage. Baurus ushered the Emperor into the cell, shutting the gate.

"Stay put, prisoner," Glenroy said to the Dunmer, who took the revelation of the secret passage with an air of detached calm. She then stared at the Emperor and then glanced back at Glenroy when he took several threatening steps towards her, his practised hand flying lightly to the hilt of his katana, protectively blocking any path to the Emperor while Renault waited impatiently just inside the passage.

Emperor Uriel walked towards the opening in the wall, still somewhere between reality and his visions, until his clouded gaze passed the prisoner. He halted suddenly, now wide-awake and staring at the dark figure pressed close to the wall.

"You... I've seen you..."

All three Blades were taken by surprise when the Emperor confidently strode right past Glenroy, the Blade who was so admirably trying to keep the prisoner at a safe distance.

"Let me see your face..." Uriel requested softly. After a visible, lingering moment of hesitation, the woman edged closer, obviously taking care not to upset the three Blades ready to rush to the Emperor's defense at a moment's notice.

With her closer to the flickering light of Glenroy's torch now, Baurus finally got a good look at her. Tall and slim, lanky rather than curvy, with wiry muscle contributing significantly more to her figure than body fat. Her posture wasn't just strained, she had the controlled air of someone trying very hard to hide the fact that they were drunk, limping, exhausted or otherwise incapacitated. She would've been doing a remarkable job if only the numerous and relatively fresh patches of blood on her torn clothes didn't give it all away.

And of course, there was her face. Bluish-grey skin, unusual dark red hair falling down her shoulders in a long messy tangle. She had untypically dark eyes for a Dunmer, more a rich cherry red than the bloodshot crimson Baurus was used to seeing. Her sharp, angular features carried the same message as her posture, a controlled mask of attention.

Even without the injuries, the lack of the gaunt under-nourished look all prisoners eventually came to share could only mean she hadn't been in here for long, a few days at most. Baurus reflexively edged closer with his hand on his scabbard upon making this observation. The gesture was not lost on the Dunmer, whose eyes darted first to follow his hand and then to glance at his face, sizing him up. Her body gave a barely perceptible twitch when a reflexe should've kicked in but was stopped by the mind.

The Redguard tensed. This was obviously not the average street pickpocket and he was uncomfortable with the idea of her standing a mere stride away from his Emperor.

All this transpired in an instant, as used to appraising strangers as a Blade had to be. The Emperor was also gazing at the Dunmer, who shifted uncomfortably, ready to jump back against the wall any moment. Glenroy, his eyes narrowed and his face tense, looked like he would gladly hack the woman to pieces for causing this delay. Renault just stared in a bewildered and helpless way.

"Yes... You are the one from my dreams..." the Emperor spoke again and an all-too-recognisable look passed through the prisoner's face, a look that was eventually shared by any and all new servants who came into the Emperor's employment. "Then the stars were right, and today is the day," he added, more to himself. "May the Gods give me strength."

"_Sire..._" Renault started, but trailed off as the Emperor paid her no heed. Baurus shifted in unease. The prisoner looked disconcerted.

"What day is that, exactly?" the Dunmer asked, when it became clear the old man wasn't going anywhere. Her Imperial was flawless. Not a native of Vvardenfell, then.

The Emperor murmured a reply, a very faint strange smile on his face,

"It is the day I face my destiny and you first embark on the path set for you by the gods. Whatever you have done up till now, it is not that for which you will be remembered." He then backed away towards the passage. "You must come with us, you must help us. Only you can douse the fires of destruction that will soon wreak chaos on Tamriel. Only you can save us."

The Dunmer blinked. Baurus sighed. A muffled laugh was heard from the other occupied cell.

"Ah," the prisoner breathed.

"_Please_, Sire, we _must_ keep moving," Renault spoke in an exasperated way. She almost seemed surprised when the Emperor finally turned and moved through the opening in the wall. Glenroy followed, but not before shooting a hostile glance of warning at the prisoner.

"Looks like this is your lucky day. Just stay out of our way," Baurus said quietly to the Dunmer, who answered with a blank look. Baurus shook his head in disbelief and followed his Emperor, keeping the woman in the corner of his eye. She'd be crazy to try anything at this point, but in the last few hours he had dealt often enough with crazy so as not to push his chances.

The small group made its way through the earthy tunnel, the unsteady soil sliding under their feet, with the Dunmer prisoner following not far behind. Something that sounded like a string of Dunmeri curses echoed from Dreth's cell.

Choice words indeed.


	4. The Emperor's Legacy

Baurus no longer bothered with sheathing his sword as he followed Glenroy and the Emperor through the eerie Ayleid passages. His gaze kept shifting apprehensively to and fro, struggling to take in all of his surroundings at once. He hated the Ayleid ruins with a passion. The way they were built, with bluish crystals throwing patchy illumination, pillars, arcs, alcoves and niches harbouring pitch-black shadows, every corner was the perfect hiding place for assassins.

The Captain was dead, struck down from her exposed side as she rushed to the Emperor's aid. Her death left a bitter feeling in Baurus's gut, only adding to the grief he felt over the apparent deaths of Uriel's three sons. Renault had sometimes been a hard woman to deal with, bossy and authorative, but it was something you learned to appreciate while waging a war. She had been a good woman, and a good Blade, up to the very end.

Her effort would've been in vain had she not bought time for the prisoner to intervene. Just as the assassin was bearing down on the Emperor, who had backed up against a wall, the Dunmer had sprung from the shadows, slamming all her body weight into the assassin's side. With the armour covering his body, it surely had to be painful for her, but it knocked him off his feet, allowing Baurus to deal with him. For someone wearing rags and wielding no weapon, the Dunmer had shown impressive courage.

Even so, Baurus hadn't wanted to waste time on debating when Glenroy proceeded to leave the prisoner behind, locking the heavy door. His paranoia paid off when the ancient lock was wedged shut by his efforts. The way back was closed now, seeing as no key, lockpick or spell would do any good against the hopelessly ruined mechanism.

As they rounded a corner, Baurus glared at the deep alcoves in the wall. Now more than even, he regretted not having been gifted with magical talent. A life detection spell would have been invaluable at this point.

He banished the thought. He had to make do with what he had. They needed to traverse the ruins underneath the city and later the sewers, exit just at the edge of Lake Rumare and cross the wilderness of the Jerall Mountains to Cloud Ruler Temple. There the Emperor would, hopefully, have some measure of safety. Afterwards, they would need to start their research into the attack, the identity of the assassins and their motives.

It bothered Baurus greatly that the assassins knew of the secret passage. Outside of the Blades, who all shared thorough knowledge of the secret passages through the city, he couldn't spontaneously think of anyone who would be aware of it. And the thought of a traitor among the Blades was troubling indeed.

He heard the assassin before he saw him and spun on his heels, his katana raised. The figure launched itself from the alcove and he rushed to meet it, his blade drawing a deadly arc and clashing against the black claymore of the attacker. Another assassin attacked him from his side and he briefly saw three more rush Glenroy.

"My sword for the Dragon!" his comrade cried, fending off an assailant who had been heading for the Emperor.

Only two Blades standing between five assassins and their target, and you only needed so much of an opening to kill an old man. Mouthing a prayer to Talos, Baurus focused on staying alive and keeping himself a barrier between the Emperor and his opponents. For several moments, all that could be heard was the ring of metal and the occasional grunt and cry of pain.

He parried another blow and drove his katana into the assassin's stomach, twisting out of the way as the second assailant struck out. He used his momentum to hurl the limp body off his blade and into the other opponent, pressing forward as the assassin dodged out of the way of the falling red-clad body. Diving past a vicious slash at his head, Baurus skewered the man and whirled around, already rushing to Glenroy's aid.

Glenroy grunted as he was thrown back against the wall, staggering in shock. While one of the two remaining assassins raised his mace to finish him, the other lunged at the Emperor. Baurus moved to intercept him but was held back by a vicious flurry of blows coming from a third assassin, one who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere to join the fray, nearly catching the Baurus by surprise.

He found himself being pressed back even as he desperately tried to dispose of the attacker. He finally managed to plant the blade between a pair of ribs and hurried to the Emperor's side.

Much to his surprise and relief, he found the old man safe, with the Dunmer prisoner parrying the last assassin's enraged blows while Glenroy hung back, clutching his injured shoulder. The assassin who had meant to attack the Emperor lay in a crumpled heap on the stone floor, blood leaking from where the Dunmer had struck as she lunged at him from the shadows.

The last assassin fell to the ground with a cry of pain. Breathing hard, Baurus stared at the still shadows, the grip on his sword unwavering. After a few more moments, it seemed that the threat had been eliminated - for now, at least.

Baurus looked in bewilderment at the Dunmer and the familiar blood-stained katana in her hands. Her posture seemed to have eased somewhat. He had no idea where she had come from but he was thankful for it.

Glenroy, though, didn't seem so charitable.

"Get away from us, or stay and be killed," he growled at the Dunmer, who didn't seem in a hurry to lower her weapon, "I don't know who you're working for but I-"

"No, she is not one of them," interrupted the Emperor in a quiet voice. Baurus silently agreed. If she wanted the Emperor dead she would've only needed to stand back and enjoy the show. Glenroy shrugged, relighting the torch that had gone out during the assault, his eyes narrowed as he watched the woman. The fact that she had just saved his life along with that of the Emperor's didn't seem to have improved his disposition.

"Come closer, I prefer not to have to shout," said Uriel with the patient, kindly voice of a comely grandfather who did not have assassins breathing down his neck and hadn't just lost several of the closest people in the world.

The Dunmer edged closer, sheathing her blade under Glenroy's glare - the Captain's katana, Baurus now had no doubt of it.

"We have to keep moving, we can't afford to stand here waiting to be attacked," Glenroy cut in before the Emperor could say something. The old man's shoulders slumped slightly at this reminder at their predicament, but he nodded and turned, gesturing the Dunmer to follow.

The mindless flight through the ruins resumed, eyes scanning the dark hallways, every step echoing eerily off the stone. Glenroy pressed forward, the Emperor and the prisoner following, with Baurus closing the procession. Even as he kept his eyes and ears open for trouble, he could hear parts of the exchange between the two figures in front of him.

"They cannot understand why I trust you... They have not seen what I have seen," came the low voice of the Emperor.

"...Yeah."

"Tell me this: do you know of the Nine, how they spin the web of our fates with an invisible hand?"

"I've heard of them," the Dunmer replied coldly.

"I have served the Nine all my days and have learned to chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. The stars are many, each a fire, and every one a sign. Their voices can tell much to the listening ear, and so I wonder: Which sign marked your birth?"

There was a moment of suspicious hesitation before she answered,

"The Thief," her voice brisk. "Why do you ask?"

"I have known my fate for some time now and I recognise the signs that herald the end of my path. And while your path is not clear to me, among whatever else the gods have in store for you, there will be light and there will be triumph. Yours is the face of hope for the land of Tamriel, and knowing this, my heart is satisfied."

An uneasy pause followed before the Dunmer spoke up.

"You don't fear death?" she asked, obviously steering the conversation away from her supposedly saving the world.

"No trophies of my triumphs have proceeded me, unfortunately, but I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy." Baurus heard a smile in the Emperor's voice as he said it. Shaking his head, he studied the treacherous ruins, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. This day had gone bad enough and the Emperor talking as if he was already a dead man did nothing to bolster his spirits. Glenroy swore quietly, his irritation evident, as he motioned the procession to turn around. A passageway they had been intending to use had obviously caved in some time ago, forcing them to retrace their footsteps and search for another route. Meanwhile, the old man continued in a low voice, "Men are but flesh and blood: they know their doom, but not the hour. In this, I am blessed to see the hour of my death, to face my apportioned fate, then fall."

"Will you make no attempt whatsoever to survive?" Suddenly the Dunmer woman's voice sounded accusing. "If you're so content to die, why are you even here? Why bother trying to escape? Where are going if you really think it will all be to no avail? And above all, why risk the lives of the bodyguards who'd die to keep you alive if you are so certain of your own demise?" She sounded frustrated, her voice an angry whisper. Glenroy shot her another glare, obviously incensed at her insolence.

"One must not stray from the path, one must follow it to the end. It is crucial that events play out the way they should and not otherwise. As a spontaneous example, had I stayed at my palace to die, the two of us would have never met, a catastrophe all in itself. But because I am doing this, an important achievement has been made, one that will make all the difference - for the world of Tamriel if not for me. I go to my grave,..." Glenroy gave the Emperor a startled glance and Baurus cringed at the statement as much as the way it had been said, devoid of emotion and matter-of-factly, "...but you must go on and fulfill your destiny. Our paths have crossed, but only for a short while. Even so, I am glad to have met Tamriel's salvation before taking leave from this world."

Silence settled over the party. The Emperor seemed to drown in his visions again as he shuffled mindlessly through the corridors. Baurus kept his breath shallow and steady. The lack of any incidents for such a period of time grated on his nerves even more than the dungeon itself.

They continued on through the maze, ancient archways looming over them, the shadows glowering from dark corners. Suddenly Glenroy halted, gesturing for them to do the same.

"Hold up, I don't like this," he mouthed, nodding at the passage ahead. Taking a look Baurus was forced to agree. They were facing the entrance to a vast hallway, pale crystals glowing many feet above them, the walls, alcoves and fallen collumns shrouded in darkness hiding a promise of danger. "Let me take a look," Glenroy volunteered, drawing his blade as he ventured forward. With light steps and his torch held high, he proceeded down the hallway, doing his best to illuminate and examine the shady spots. Baurus and the Dunmer, who had drawn the katana again, stood protectively on either side of the Emperor, ready to spring into action.

Several long minutes passed. Baurus kept shifting his weight and flexing his muscles to avoid cramping as he found himself unable to relax his stance.

After what seemed like an eternity, Glenroy returned, still facing the hallway as he backed towards them.

"It looks clear," he reported, seeming even more agitated than before.

"Where exactly are we headed?" the Dunmer mouthed in Baurus's general direction as they traversed the hall, tense and weapons drawn, eyes shifting apprehensively.

"There's a passage that connects the ruins with the sewers of the city, we're going to use them to get to the other side of Lake Rumare. We're almost there."

"Right," she grunted. "Are you absolutely sure it wouldn't have been safer to just swim across the lake? Rent a boat? A spell of water-walking?"

Baurus bit down an angry and irritated response and sighed in frustration. "I admit, things aren't going exactly according to plan," he said quietly. The Dunmer shook her head silently, obviously forgoing a sarcastic response. "Anyway, I don't see why you would complain about it. If not for that ultimate, inexplicable coincidence, you'd still be in your cell. Perhaps it really was the will of the gods..."

The Dunmer snorted to show what she thought of that idea as they rounded a corner.

Baurus tensed in anticipation, allowing himself just the faintest idea of hope as they crossed the last few passages. The gate through which they would escape should come into sight in a moment or so... As they drew closer, however, that little spark of hope was drowned in the wave of panic that filled his gut. The gateway was hanging off its hinges, the metal twisted and charred, and heavy boulders blocked the narrow passageway, sealing it off beyond hope.

"Damn it! The passage has been collapsed! A trap!" cried Glenroy as he whirled around, raising his katana, expecting assassins to close in any moment. At that moment, they heard it: muffled footsteps quickly heading their way... With no place to retreat to, they would be cut down quickly, and the Emperor would die, unless..

"What about that side passage over there?" Baurus asked, pointing to an inconspicuous opening in the wall.

"Worth a try. Let's go!"

They rushed through the short, narrow passage, entering a small room with no other exit. While still a death trap, at least they now had a somewhat defensible position, a glimmer of hope. Leaving the Emperor, Glenroy rushed back outside and Baurus could already hear the clang of weapons as his comrade took on the first wave. He turned to the prisoner.

"Stay here with the Emperor. _Guard him with your life_." He grabbed hold of her shoulder and gave it a shake to emphasize the latter, his bearing letting her know it wasn't just a suggestion. The Dunmer nodded with a tightening in her jaw, shaking his hand off.

Wasting no more time, Baurus turned on his heel and dashed out of the chamber to where Glenroy was backing down under a flurry of blows.

"For the Empire!" he cried, and leapt into the fray.

XXX

Liallan stood at the doorway, the katana out as she stared at the fight. All she could see through the passage was a blur of black armor against the metallic silver and gold of the Blades, the latter being vastly outnumbered. She was still sore in my places than she cared to think about, but since she'd healed herself she could at least fight.

An assassin had dodged past the Blades and into the passage and hurled himself at her, his mace rushing in a high arc while he screamed "For Lord Dagon!" into her ears. She parried the blow, locking the blade against the hilt of the mace, but rather than recoiling from him, she pressed forward, diving under his reach and slamming into him. Her bruised side was protesting once again at the abuse, but she successfully drove the assassin into the wall, causing him to stagger. Recovering fatally faster than her opponent, Liallan was on him like a viper, the katana scraping against the armor as it sank into his chest.

The man slumped down, his attire mysteriously disappearing in red mist just like that of his comrades, while Liallan glanced back towards the Blades. She jumped in surprise when a hand grasped her shoulder, and spun around to face the Emperor. The glittering crimson jewel set in the amulet resting on his chest was now glowing faintly, giving it an even more foreboding appearance.

"Wha-"

"I can go no further. My time is running short. I must tell you what you need to know." His voice was now intense and gravely. Knowing the hour of your death couldn't be fun, no matter what he said - even if she was long convinced he was a complete madman...

"You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants." The Emperor pulled her away from the doorway, backing into a corner. With him a few feet further away from the fight, Liallan didn't object, but his voice now held a strained desperation and his pale blue eyes glittered with an urgency she didn't like.

With an efficient motion, the Emperor pulled the gaudy red jewel from his chest and handed it to her. After a moment's hesitation, Liallan grasped it with her free hand, letting the jewel dangle from her fingers on the golden chain when she didn't like the tingling power radiating from the gem.

"Take the Amulet to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

The Emperor took a step backward, out of her reach, as she struggled for something to say. She winced at the sound of someone sounding like Glenroy crying out in pain behind her. But before she could turn to face the battle again, she heard the grinding of stones sliding apart, and then...

_No!_

She started forward, but the figure was too fast, flying out of the passage in a flash, the longsword in its grasp carving through the air, parting the intricate seams of the regal robe, slashing through flesh and splintering bone.

The Emperor crumpled to the floor, the look of shock and realisation dying as his eyes glazed over, while Liallan sprang back, out of the reach of the second blow of the sword, now aiming for her. The assassin, not giving the dead Emperor a single glance, advanced on her.

"You picked a bad day to take up the cause of the Septims, stranger," the armored figure leered and attacked.

On a good day, the fight would've been short. But then, on a good day Liallan would've been wearing armor and wielding a weapon with a reach somewhat more appropriate for such close quarters, wouldn't be encumbered by a huge breakable amulet in one hand, and would've been healed and rested. Although, come to think of it, on a good day Liallan wouldn't be anywhere near a prison and a score of bloodthirsty assassins out to cause the inevitable the demise of an Emperor.

Her left hand kept the Amulet safely out of reach as her right handled the task of parrying the overwhelming blows. Even so, there was little opportunity for the offensive and Liallan found herself pushed backwards into a corner, with the wall only a few feet away from her. She tried to dive past the assassin but got a heavily armoured boot on her kneecap for the trouble. Staggering and crying out in pain, she raised the katana to parry the opportunistic slash at her chest and was knocked backwards against the hard wall, the breath flying out of her lungs as she found herself pinned down.

Liallan kicked out, the flat of her foot landing square on her opponent's stomach. While doing no real damage - except to herself, as the pain instantly informed her - the kick caused him to stagger backwards and the weight pinning her down to lift. Liallan raised her blade provocatively and stayed where she was, readying herself, as the man resumed the attack, lunging forward and obviously putting all his strength into the blow.

The Dunmer braced herself, as if intending to parry it, but at the last possible moment veered sideways, dodging away from the sword and nearly collapsing at the weight placed on her injured knee. As she expected, the assasin cried out in pain, his trembling arms dropping the sword as the shock of its impact against the wall shook his whole body. Not letting the man recover, Liallan closed in, impaling the assassin. There was the telltale stiffening of muscles and then the red mist.

Liallan shook the robed body from the bloodied katana, leaning herself against the wall. Suddenly there was movement in the doorway and Baurus rushed in just as the body hit the floor with a thud. He was panting from the fight, his posture was stiff and uneasy, blood leaking from underneath the various openings in his armour and dripping into puddles off the blade of his weapon.

The Redguard's gaze flitted to her and the limp assassin on the floor, and then to the Emperor in the opposite corner.

"No!" he gasped, his body convulsing as if having been pierced by an imaginary sword. His hand jerked, the blood-smeared katana clattering to the floor. The Blade fell to his knees by the Emperor's side, kneeling over the lifeless figure. His hand reached for the blood-drenched wound in the old man's side, fingers halting in the air a bare inch away, not quite touching. His breath turned ragged and uneven. Baurus screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head slowly in desperate denial.

Liallan stayed where she was, leaning against the wall, with the tip of the katana in her hand trailing on the floor, her sword arm hanging limply by her side. Her knee hurt, as did her foot, but she paid it no heed, letting herself wallow in the sadness and bitter anger she felt. She may have not known the Emperor, he may have been a mindless lunatic, but he shouldn't have had to die. There was a nagging feeling of guilt eating at her conscience, even though she knew that this time, the death really wasn't due to any mistake of hers. Even so, she had been entrusted with his life, and now he was dead. She was even more furious at how quietly he had resolved to go - it seemed that he had indeed known the precise moment of his death, and if only he had moved away from the passage instead of towards it, if only he had given her a chance to protect him... But no, he had needed to go and ramble about her role in the fate of Tamriel and all that, which made her think, if he was right about knowing when he would die, could it be-

_Oh no, stop that trail of thought right there._

Liallan shook her head wearily, than snapped back to reality when she heard Baurus murmuring softly...

"..Dead. We've failed... I... _I've_ failed... The Blades have sworn to protect the Emperor and now he and all his sons are dead..."

The Dunmer felt like she should've said something, corrected that one mistake, but she didn't have it in her to speak...

Suddenly the Blade looked up, his gaze focusing on Liallan.

"The Amulet of the Kings, it's not on his body! Do you know what-"

Liallan held forth her left hand, letting the Amulet dangle from her fingers.

"He gave it to me." Her own voice sounded strange to her ears, empty and detached.

Baurus regarded her silently, then said quietly,

"Strange... He saw something in you... Trusted you." His gaze filled with sorrow as it returned to the dead Emperor, studying his face. The Redguard reached out and gently closed the man's eyes. "They say it's the Dragonblood in the veins of every Septim that makes them see more... more than ordinary humans. The Amulet of Kings is a sacred relic, the ultimate symbol of the Emperor. Many think it's the Red Dragon Crown, but that's just jewelry... But the Amulet... Only a true heir of Septim blood can wear it..." Baurus's voice trailed off for a moment, then he gave a bitter laugh. "_Could_ wear it... It's all over now. The Emperor and his sons are dead... The line has ended."

"Perhaps not," Liallan found herself saying.

"What? What are you talking about?" Baurus stared at her in confusion.

"The Emperor... Before he died... He gave me the Amulet and told me to give it to someone called Jauffre," Liallan explained, struggling to find the words. "Apparently there's another heir."

Baurus studied her for a moment, his expression now calculating. Finally, he spoke up,

"Nothing I've ever heard about, but Jauffre would be the one to know. He's the Grandmaster of our Order," Baurus added in answer to her questioning gaze, "...though you may not think so to meet him. He lives under the guise of a monk in Weynon Priory, south-east of Chorrol."

Liallan was silent, then asked quietly,

"How do I get there?"

Baurus regarded her and just a hint of a smile appeared on his bloodied and worn features.

"It seems the Emperor's trust in you was well-placed."

She gave him what was surely a blank, incomprehensive look. Well-placed? Hadn't she just failed to protect him after the Redguard had instructed her to _guard him with her life_?

Shaking his head at her confounded expression, Baurus sighed and continued,

"First, you'll need to get out of here. That passage there must lead to some part of the sewers," he jerked his head towards the treacherous opening through which the assassin had come, "There aren't many other possibilities. The sewers might hold a few rats and goblins, but they shouldn't give you much trouble, from what I've seen. You'll emerge somewhere on the bank of Lake Rumare. I trust you'll be able to find your own way to Chorrol from there."

"What about you?" she asked. The Redguard's features tightened.

"I'll guard the Emperor's body and make sure no one follows you."

Liallan frowned. The gods only knew how many more of those assassins were coming, but it was obvious the Blade was serious about it. She sighed, shaking her head. She finally sheathed the katana and dropped the Amulet into a pouch she had earlier scavenged from one of the red-clad corpses.

Liallan limped over to Baurus, halting briefly to send healing magic into her body. The throbbing in her knee lessened somewhat. She then dug into the pouch and handed Baurus a healing potion. He looked at it for a moment, his eyes briefly shifting to access her own injuries, then accepted it.

"Thanks." He uncorked the bottle and downed it, relaxing visibly as the wounds underneath his armor healed somewhat. He glanced at the sword hanging at Liallan's hip..

"I see you brought Captain Renault's katana..." his voice was just wistful enough for her to realise what he was getting at.

"Do you want it?" Liallan asked brusquely.

"You'd be unarmed," he pointed out, looking at her sceptically.

"Not for long. I'll be going through the _sewers_, after all." Unbuckling the katana from her belt, she practically shoved it into the Redguard's hands. "Take it."

Baurus carefully set the blade on the ground.

"Thanks," he said again. "It's earned a place of honour in our halls, beside Glenroy's..." There was a bitterness in his voice and Liallan couldn't blame him. "Here, you'll need this." He retrieved a small, ordinary-looking iron key and handed it to her. "It should unlock the entrance to the sewers, wherever it is."

"Right."

A pause.

"I'll get going, then," she said, moving over to the passageway. "Good luck, Baurus, I hope you live through this."

"Likewise. Do you have a name, or should I keep calling you 'prisoner'?"

She hesitated, then answered,

"Liallan."

He nodded, then said,

"Good luck to you too, you'll need it."

"Won't we all..." Liallan muttered, shaking her head, and disappeared through the passage.


	5. A Shady Interlude

With a bit of firm persuasion, the barred door in the mouth of the sewers tunnel swung open, allowing Liallan to pass through. The night was a dark one, thick cloud cover blotting out the dim shadow of Secunda and leaving only shreds of Masser's reddish presence visible in the sky, with half-hearted reflections flickering in the pitch-black waters of Lake Rumare. Just across it towered the Imperial City, a pale ghost of light grey walls and towers. 

Leaving the mudcrabs to their own business, Liallan walked along the shore until she could no longer smell the sewer entrance. Then, she quickly stripped, briefly hiding her few possessions under a rock while she tried to get the last reminders of the Imperial Prison and the sewers off her body. She rinsed the dirt and blood off her skin as best as she could and collected her hair into a high bun again, taking care to braid her few lockpicks into it in the process. Donning her shredded clothing again for lack of anything better and ensuring that the Amulet was still in her pouch, she looked up at the sky. It was just past midnight. Perfect.

The Waterfront district held an unnaturally hushed quality, unusual for this time of the day, when the most significant business was being conducted. The slums were nearly empty and Liallan only saw the occasional beggar cautiously peering around the corner and hugging the shadows of the shabby buildings. Even the Bloated Float, the ship-turned-tavern anchored securely to the docks, sounded almost deserted.

Liallan turned a corner and approached the Garden of Dareloth only to find it empty, which wasn't that surprising, considering the rest of the district. Looking around, she spotted Puny Ancus propped up against a wall, wrapped in a blanket that seemed to have more holes than actual fabric. His head was lolling on his chest and he appeared to be nodding off. Creeping closer, Liallan nudged the beggar with her foot.

The beggar stirred and a worn, wrinkled face looked with surprise into her own. His eyes widened as he recognised her and scrambled upright..

"It's you! I'd heard they'd dragged ye off to the prison. Didn't expect to see ye coming out so soon. Lucky one, ain'tcha?"

Liallan shrugged, then pressed a gold coin, a legacy of the assassins, into the old man's palm.  
"Any chance of you knowing what's going on here? Why's the district so empty?"

"You didn't hear, didcha?" Puny Ancus shifted his weight with excitement as he bit experimentally at the septim. "They're saying some assassins stormed the Palace. Guards kept cutting 'em down but they'd just kept coming. Some even got inside. I'd heard the Emperor himself had to make a run for it." Liallan swore silently, realising she had neglected to ask Baurus about what had happened before the Emperor had gone through her cell. It occurred to her that she didn't even have any idea of who the assassins had been. "Now, though, the attack's over and the guards are scouring over the city, trying ter find out who's behind it all. Tried dragging some folk off, too."

"What about Armand? Is he here?"

"I heard he was lying low at Dynari Amnis's in the Talos District. Trying to figure out what to do and all that..."

"Thanks, Ancus. Shadow hide you," with that, Liallan swiftly turned and stalked away into the night.

---

Even at this late hour, the Imperial City was in an uproar. Small groups of guards were hurrying to and fro around the districts, restlessness visible in every move. Both they and the few remaining stationary guards were easy to avoid as Liallan crept through the Talos District, passing the statue of Akatosh framed with flowerbeds. Luckily, she knew where Dynari resided, having once visited the stocky Imperial woman on Guild business. Spotting the door to Dynari Amnis's house, she edged close and leaned in. Yes, there were definitely voices coming from within, familiar ones holding a tinge of frustration. She gave the door a light but persistent knock, taking care to use the sequence agreed upon by the Thieves Guild members.

At once, the voices fell silent, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon being drawn. Footsteps almost too light to hear approached the door. Liallan moved back, allowing herself space just in case something was wrong. She heard the click of a lock before the door opened a crack. The tan, wide-nosed face of a Redguard peered through at her.

His face betrayed a hint of surprise before he swung the door open, pulling her inside, and shut it behind her. Methredel and Dynari were standing at a table, candles throwing patchy light onto the leather armour of the two. The Imperial sat back down upon recognising her while the Bosmer drew closer to greet her, a smile on her face.

"Liallan! Didn't think I'd see you anytime soon. Weren't you dragged off to the Imperial Prison? How did you get out? I always thought you to be an exceptional thief but really, it's the Imperial Prison, how on Nirn did you pull that off?" Liallan instinctively edged back from the flurry of questions while Armand Cristophe, a Doyen of the Gray Fox, cracked an amused grin.

"One question at a time, Methredel," Liallan held up her arms somewhat defensively, chuckling half-heartedly. "Yes, I was in the Imperial Prison, what else does it look like?" She gestured at her torn clothes. "And yes, I got lucky. Let's leave it at that. Now, will anyone tell me what's going on around here?"

It was Armand who answered her, his expression darkening again,

"A group of people attacked the Imperial Palace, obviously aiming for the Emperor. Some managed to get inside, there are even rumours the Emperor has been killed. Just the usual far-fetched speculation, of course," he amended quickly at seeing Liallan's expression turn sour. "As I'm sure you've noticed, the guards are now combing through the whole city, trying to find out why, what and where, the usual. But once the dust settles, someone will start casting blame around, and it's always a very specific type of blame whenever something illegal occurs. The problem is that even the Watch realise it's not in the style of the Dark Brotherhood to charge a palace with bound armour and weapons, so the blame will fall on us," he spat bitterly, obviously incensed at the notion. Liallan had a sudden recollection: Weeks ago, she had been questioning him about the details of the Thieves' Code, as it was referred to, and he had given her a very resolute answer...

_"You never kill anyone on a job. We're thieves, _not_ murderers. That's the Dark Brotherhood's province."_

"Is there anything we can do?"

"At the moment?" Methredel answered her. "It's probable the Watch will assault the Waterfront in their search for a scapegoat, so we've already moved all major enterprises to higher ground and the more conspicuous Guild members have gone into hiding. Besides that, we'll just have to see whatever they throw at us and then react to it."

Liallan was quiet for a few moments, during which Dynari and Methredel resumed their bickering over the best course of action while Armand heaved a tired sigh. Then she asked,

"Would it help if we handed the assassins to the Watch on a golden plate?"

Armand raised an eyebrow,

"It would certainly call off the chase, if that's what you mean. Are you suggesting we make our own inquiries into this matter?"  
"Yes, that's exactly what I am suggesting." Liallan meant it. If the Thieves Guild managed to identify the assassins and coax the Watch into dealing with them, both Tamriel and the Guild would have one less problem to worry about. She briefly considered sharing her experience in the ruins beneath the city but decided against it. She didn't really have many more leads than the thieves did.

"I'll report to the Grey Fox. He'll see what we can do," Armand promised.

_Ah yes, the Grey Fox, probably the single most powerful individual in the whole Guild, an elusive criminal mastermind who has been around for several centuries and is rumoured to have stolen his Grey Cowl from the Daedric Lord Nocturnal herself._ Liallan expected that someday she would meet him and wasn't sure if she should look forward to or dread the encounter.

Thoughts of criminals and prison quickly brought another matter to her mind, and she pulled Armand away from the two women.

"What of Cornelicus?" she asked.

During the course of the next few minutes, Liallan learned that the noble's actions had considerably damaged the Grey Fox's opinion of him and that he was to be removed from the scene. The Dunmer had almost been led into thinking the Guild was to break its ultimate 'no killings' rule until the Redguard assured her otherwise.

"Even if we didn't have a policy on this, an assassination would attract far too much attention and the Watch's memory isn't that short - you're accused of attempting to murder him, escape, and as soon as the next morning the man who got you imprisoned is found dead. Someone'll make the connection. No, as much as the bastard deserves it, he's to be dealt with differently."

"Meaning?"

"The Grey Fox already worked it all out. We were going to send someone to pay a visit to him, but it seems fitting that you do it. Take this," he handed her a dagger and a sealed note, "leave this in his chamber. Also, a snitch claims that, rather than leaving your things to the Watch, Cornelicus took them for himself. You can recover them in the process, so you'll be killing two birds with one stone."

Liallan nodded, glancing at the sealed envelope.

"Do I get to ask what's in there?"

"Just some information assuring him that, unless he severs all ties to the Guild and leaves you be, his reputation, rank and titles can and will be removed. You don't need to know any more than that. And of course, when this was written we assumed he'd try to kill you while you were in prison, but it still works."

Liallan frowned. She doubted Cornelicus would just leave her in peace, but short of killing him, this was the best she could do.

Methredel rose, abandoning her debate with Dynari, and led Liallan upstairs.

"Can't have you raiding a noble's house dressed like a beggar," the Wood Elf said cheerfully.

_Gods, she almost makes it sound like I've been invited for dinner,_ Liallan thought with a note of amusement while the other thief shoved heaps of clothing, daggers and lockpicks into her hands, gesturing her to remove the ruined attire she was currently wearing.

"Isn't this Dynari's stuff?" Liallan's voice was muffled as she pulled a black hooded tunic over her head. She navigated her way into light again to see the Bosmer grinning mischievously.

"Oh, I'm sure she won't mind sharing it with a fellow Guild member in dire need," she chuckled. Liallan snorted. The clothes were of exceptionally fine weave, almost exquisite, and she made a mental note to avoid dirtying or damaging them in this night's sortie.

"As long as you're not trying to frame me for breaking one of the Guild laws," Liallan responded with a shrug and a light twitch of her lips.

"Whatever," Methredel laughed, leading her back downstairs. Dynari slowly raised an eyebrow at the Dunmer's attire. Meanwhile, Methredel gave her a little shove in the direction of the door. "Have fun," she said with a grin.

_Definitely a dinner party. Maybe even a date?_

Clad in dark blue trousers, a black hooded tunic and soft leather boots, Liallan carefully left the house, shutting the door on a very annoyed-sounding Dynari, Armand's frustrated sighs and Methredel's giggles. Moving in silent dashes from shadow to shadow, past watchful eyes and the patrols of guards, the Dunmer made her way southward to the Temple District.

Both moons had gone into hiding. The night was a thief's night.


	6. Out in the Rain

Dawn was breaking. 

Alvand Cornelicus could see it from his seat at the desk in his study. The window was ajar and the intricate carved shutters were swinging uneasily in the intruding breeze. The clouds had long stretched themselves over the sky, resembling a blanket of cotton drenched with rainwater. That cover rendered the sun little more than a bleak white glare, a patch of the horizon more painful to the still drowsy eyes than the rest. Every so often, a sparse sheet of droplets would shower onto the Imperial City, as if Kynareth herself intended for it to rain but couldn't quite make up her mind.

The heavy tapestries and thick carpets couldn't keep the morning chill out of the air and the Breton shivered. His thin, bony features were set into a focused frown as his eyes ran through the inky lines one last time. After that, he crumpled the letter with a kind of precision typical of High Elf mages and with a casual flick of the mind incinerated it in his palm. The ashes now clenched tight in his fist, he brought his hand to his chin as his eyes stared unseeingly out of the window. He briefly glanced at the plain steel dagger resting on his desk as if it were a poisonous viper.

Cornelicus had no illusions about his position with the Thieves Guild. While the conflict had been unfortunate as well as inevitable, the letter he had received and the warning inside had been expected and concerned him little. Far more worrying was the idea that a hostile individual had managed to break into his home, bypass the magical protections, place a dagger within inches of his throat and get out again, all of it without stirring a fleck of dust.

A moment's reflection made him realise the magical wards he had set weren't all that powerful - designed to scare the random petty thief rather than stop a determined person bent on intrusion. His frown deepened, making the wrinkles and creases in his weathered skin even more pronounced. It occurred to him that he no longer expected anyone other than the occasional thief to be interested in making night visits, that the relative tranquility of the years he had spent as a noble of the Council had gulled him into a false feeling of security - despite the conscious knowledge that he still had old enemies who would make quite a fuss over learning his whereabouts.

Possibly even more troubling was how physically close he had come to being assassinated. The intruder had actually pinned the note to his bedside-table with the point of the dagger, the marks left in the wood a permanent reminder even though he had burned the note. Cornelicus had always believed himself to be a light sleeper and it was somewhat upsetting to learn that after so many years, his experience didn't count for anything anymore. Years of comfort as well as old age had obviously taken their toll. He briefly glanced at the band of gold that encircled his ring finger to assure himself that the magic was still there. The ring bore a powerful illusion enchantment and was arguably his most valuable possession, at least under the present circumstances. Some years ago he had even magically shrunk it so that it wouldn't slip from his finger by accident, and hadn't removed it since.

Resolving to construct better magical wards around his quarters Cornelicus looked up at the sound of someone knocking lightly at his door. Calling out the usual permission he let the ashes scatter among the discarded papers crumpled in a dustbin by his desk. He slapped his palms together to clean them of the remaining ash and nodded a greeting to the elderly servant as he entered the room. A perpetual figure of deference, the man placed a tray with breakfast onto the last remaining empty corner of the desk, handing the Breton a pile of papers and then promptly proceeding to leave the room.

Idly stirring a cup of tea with a silver spoon, Cornelicus sifted through the letters and reports. His mood brightened somewhat - it seemed like his most recent investment was going to pay off very well indeed. There were still details and complications to be tended to, as a seemingly nonsensical coded letter informed him, but with his contacts, all it would take were a few unsavoury types and several sharp objects to settle the matter. He briefly considered employing the services of the Dark Brotherhood but decided against it. It didn't take much to make a Dunmer bleed and this time she wouldn't have the advantage of an open confrontation, he would make sure of that. He didn't even need to worry about tracking her down. He was sure that she would announce herself soon enough. Someone like Liallan couldn't just disappear for any significant length of time, and he had always been good at waiting.

While important, her removal was just one small part of a larger design, Cornelicus reminded himself. It wouldn't take long for the most important of his plans to bear fruit.

_They'll never know what hit them,_ Cornelicus thought with a brief twitch of his lips as his quill scratched away at the dry parchment.

The bleak sun ascended lazily through the sky, unmindful of the spider plotting away in his study.

xxx

The horse shied, sweat gleaming on its black sides as the short Bosmer on top tugged at the reins. Coming to a halt right in front of Liallan, he hastily pulled a wrinkled sheet out of a voluminous bag attached to the saddle and shoved it into her hands.

"Terrible news, the Emperor is dead! Here, read all about it!" With that, he pushed his poor mount back into motion and galloped away, the horse's hooves beating a steady rhythm into the dusty road.

It was just past midday, and already the news was on everyone's lips. As prone to overactive imagination as it was, the Black Horse Courier was nearly unmatched in speed and nosiness and had only needed a few hours to catch wind of Tamriel's newest tragedy, compile a report and set about distributing it. It was the third rider to have passed Liallan since she had left the Imperial City hours before, albeit the first one who had actually taken the time, however short, to stop and talk to her.

She glanced down at the sheet in her hands, skimming through the lines. The text was surprisingly frank and outspoken, simply providing a brief retelling of the late Uriel Septim VII's life and the mysterious manner in which it had come to an end. The Watch were assuring the citizens of Tamriel that the treacherous assassins would be caught and punished in no time at all and that the deceased Emperor would be able to rest in peace, wherever he was.

Grey nudged her hand with his muzzle and she ruffled the timber wolf's dark fur, smiling briefly at the canine. Golden eyes full of immeasurable loyalty and intelligence gazed back at her. Liallan resumed her steady walk down the Black Road, the wolf padding several strides ahead of her. After all this time, she still wasn't sure exactly how intelligent he was.

Grey, as she had so unimaginatively named him in honour of his fur the colour of nearly black ashes, had been her loyal companion for decades, his life bound to hers by powers she had no interest in comprehending. Secured by the fact that she had raised him since his birth and hadn't left him since, the bond was eternal and even death hadn't been able to keep the wolf from her side for long. Almost all the time, he had been her _only_ companion, and she would trust a wolf over a man, mer, or one of the beastfolk any day.

He was also nearly the only legacy she still had of the mistakes of her youth, but she had learned a long time ago not to think about that.

Liallan was walking through the Great Forest now. While having been cleared a long time ago to ease transport between Chorrol and the Imperial City, no other cities lay in that direction and it had fallen victim to neglect and was now a corridor of vast trunks with huge canopies. The foliage was once again invading onto the road - much to Liallan's gratitude, as she preferred to huddle in shadow rather than walk in the open, inviting any enthusiasts to rob and assault. While keeping to the shadowed trunks of the trees she reminded herself that she probably wasn't the only one trying to stay out of sight. Her palm brushed casually against the hilt of her sword - a thin, remarkably durable blade somewhat Akaviri in design - perfect for her hit-and-dodge style of fighting. At her other hip hung its twin, with a somewhat shorter reach and crafted from fine silver - an insurance against ghosts and anything else she wouldn't be able to kill with a normal weapon. A bow and a quiver of arrows were strapped to her back.

Having finally regained her possessions, Liallan was somewhat more confident. As planned, she had paid Cornelicus a visit during the night. The urge to just slit his throat and be done with it had been great and she certainly hadn't had any issues about the idea, but over the years Liallan had learned the importance of reason and cold hard logic. Fortunately for him, both had spoken in Cornelicus's favour. It was as Armand had said it - killing him would earn her more trouble than it would solve.

Her equipment had been locked in a chest in his study, which had hardly presented a problem. Far more trickier had been evading the traps he had set - fortunately she had donned her enchanted rings and amulet as soon as she had found them. That, along with her natural resistance to fire, had protected her from the traps she had set off.

Afterwards, Liallan had changed into her old attire, assured Armand that she needed to be away for a day or two and no, regretfully she couldn't stay to help them deal with the search for the assassins, at least not yet. She had then returned the fine clothing to Dynari and got out of there before the Imperial could notice the burns in the fabric.

Liallan was now wearing her armour again, a suit of light, hardened leather dyed to look like a messy assortment of dark red, dark blue and similarly dark green, with patches of black thrown in between. The armour was the second remembrance she had of her past - she had chosen to keep it simply because she had never found anything better. Draped around her shoulders was a dark, rather discoloured cloak that had obviously seen one rainfall too many. The handy amulet that reflected a fair portion of spells back to her opponents was once more hanging from her neck and several rings with various enchantments were on her fingers. There was hardly a piece of anything on her that wasn't enchanted in one way or another and the Dunmer found herself relying greatly on them.

While the useless death of the Emperor weighed heavily on her, at least Liallan was now in her element, in the deep woods where she had the upper hand. Coupled with the recovery of her equipment, that lifted her spirits significantly.

She fingered the Amulet of Kings in her pouch to check if it was still there. It was becoming an unnerving habit.

Liallan wondered exactly what she was getting into. She pondered the strange coincidence of her meeting the Emperor before his death. She shook her head, muttering an oath at the oddity of it all. Had she come into prison a day later, she would've missed the Emperor completely. Had it been a day earlier... Well, it may no longer have done her any good.

_Weynon Priory, east of Chorrol, where the supposed Grandmaster of the Blades lives undercover._ She'd be there soon. With luck she'd have a roof over her head by nightfall - hopefully the Blades would be hospitable in that regard, she didn't relish the notion of sleeping outside if it started to rain. And while she could always rent a room at one of the inns in Chorrol, Liallan's recent escape from prison left her with just a tinge of healthy paranoia.

While mer needed somewhat less sleep than human races - a quality that no doubt came in a set with their longevity - the last time she had closed her eyes was when she was lying unconscious in a dirty cell with a glob of pain for a head, over seventeen hours ago. She hoped to get a nap at the Priory before heading wherever she decided to go next. She'd probably head back to the Imperial City and help Armand an the others look for the assassins. While what had happened to the Emperor was none of her business, the Thieves Guild was.

The grimy sky overhead gave a low rumble and Liallan sighed, her spirits descending as rapidly as the raindrops from above. She liked rain. Rain was a good thing and the best noise in all the planes of the universe to fall asleep to, but not if you were caught in it.

Weynon Priory. It wasn't far, just a few more hours - a few more hours spent in what was likely to become a thunderstorm, with all the time in the world to contemplate the meaning of life as well as the lack of it, the whims of the Gods, the Daedra, and whatever other capricious forces were at work shaping the lives of mortals.

_I'll be fine,_ Liallan thought with a bleak smile, pulling the hood over her face as she crept closer to the shielding canopies of the trees.

It was beginning to rain in earnest.

xxx

Not too far away, two figures were crouching in the shrubs, their dripping cloaks seeming to melt into the muddy ground.

"Our service is truly a glorious one," murmured one of the figures, sniffling furiously.

"You will not come far if even such simple tasks are beyond your capabilities, boy," replied the other.

"It's not about the task, I just don't like rain - natural rain, I mean. The kind that looks like water dripping from the skies," he added hastily at the other's amused chuckle.

"I know what you mean, there is no need to impress me with your amazing literacy. I have no intention to babysit you throughout this night. You know what you must do. You've memorized the description. Remember, if the one matching it does show up, no heroics, you will not gain any favour with your inglorious death. You cannot take all of them on your own. You must return and alert your Brothers first."

"What if this isn't the place?"

"That changes the time, nothing else - it will still need to be cleansed, meaning you will need to sit here a while longer. We will not risk an attack until the first part of the plan is carried out."

"When will that happen?"

"You ask many questions. Remember that each of us only needs to know that which he needs to know."

"Heh."

"You may know this, though. It will be very soon. We've been provided with several very useful leads and have been following them for some time. From what I've heard of it, our goal has very nearly been located. You may not have to wait long at all."  
"That's good... I am pleased with the task assigned to me, but I cannot help but wish it were something more suited to my abilities."

"Every task needs completing and a great honour has been bestowed upon you. It is time you began recognising it as such, even under the circumstances," he added with a chuckle, gesturing at the ghastly wheather. "I will leave you now. May the Lord guide you."

"Same for you, honoured Brother. May we meet in Paradise..."

"..and bask in the Lord's glory. Farewell."

One of the figures carefully edged out of the bushes, throwing alert glances at the buildings that lay beyond. The man still hiding in the foliage sniffled again and sighed, hugging the already wet cloak tighter around himself. He returned his attentive gaze to the road, keeping an eye on the buildings for any new developments.

The night would be a long one, but the dawn that followed would surely be worth it.


	7. The Will of the Gods

Bells echoed through the room, sound reflecting off stone walls and pillars sweeping upwards to support the arched ceiling, nearly drowning out the sounds of speech. A figure stood at the altar, bathed in the cool light that filtered through the tall stained-glass windows to mix eerily with the cheerful illumination of candles. The figure paused, waiting for the bells to cease, then continued. 

"I cannot say that it is the will of the Nine; for while the Gods watch over us, preserving this world, they do not determine its every moment. We must have faith and courage. Whatever changes this event will bring, as it is sure to happen, we will do our best and let the Gods do theirs. Our best hope now lies in working together and keeping a cool head. There are many who believe that the loss of our Emperor heralds a great crisis, yet it is such thinking and not the tragedy itself that could potentially lead to one. Many would deliberately seek to do so for their own selfish purposes, and while I doubt that any of them are among you today, I assure you it is a foolish notion and could only result in ruin. Whatever some of us may believe, chaos profits no one.

I do not know what fates have placed us in this predicament, but it is up to us to prevent such chaos. As it is, I strongly advise all of you to think carefully before making any rash decisions. Good people of Kvatch, I bid you a peaceful evening."

Martin stepped away from the altar, heaving a faint sigh. A few of the citizens were filing out of the chapel but most were staying to voice their concerns to the Gods through the altar of the One as well as the nine smaller altars lining the chapel periphery. More visitors than usual had come to the chapel this evening but it was hardly surprising. News of the Emperor's death had arrived late that morning, brought by several breathless couriers on even more breathless black horses. For once, the free paper that was sponsored by the Empire itself had had something worth reading.

The fact that the message had caused such an uproar among the citizens of Kvatch was not unexpected, either. The sensational way in which the Black Horse Courier presented it hardly helped. Not only the Emperor but every single one of his heirs had been assassinated on the same evening, barely hours apart. As far as everyone was concerned, the Septim line had been eliminated. Seeing as the royalty of Cyrodiil had been appointed to rule by the Nine Divines themselves when Akatosh had blessed the Septims with his Dragonblood, it hardly seemed a good omen that the Nine had allowed such a thing to happen. Had Tamriel fallen in disfavour with the Gods? Did they intend for the rule of the Septims to end? Furthermore, did the end of the Dragonborn mark the end of the Third Era just as Tiber Septim's reign had marked its beginning? People were already jumping to radical conclusions and being a priest, Martin couldn't readily blame them, though he preferred to believe the Nine wouldn't allow the deaths of four people simply as a means to an end.

"Brother Martin?" A young dark-haired Breton girl of no more than sixteen years had approached him and was staring at him with wide, slightly sceptical eyes. Rellia, a blacksmith's daughter, although in her constitution she had hardly taken after her father. He knew her just as he knew - by name and by face at the very least - nearly every citizen of Kvatch. A priest of Akatosh tended to meet people.

"Yes, my child?"

She blushed slightly at that, lowering her eyes.

"Er, I... I just... What you just said, did you mean that?"

"I did, every word," Martin assured her, honing his tone back into the benevolent confidence he always adapted during his speeches.

"You really believe everything will be alright? Some people are saying that since there's no emperor to rule us anymore, there might be a revolution, a war between the counties, the provinces even-"

"Trust me, Rellia, the only disaster that could happen is one of our own making. Do not forget that wars are started by people, regular people like you and me. Our responsibility is to try and preserve the peace - if everyone does so, there will be no war. We will settle this peacefully and adapt to whatever new order the Council elects for us."

"Alright..." the girl stammered, but her posture seemed a bit more confident now. "Thank you! Thank you for sharing this with me, Ma-... Brother Martin."

"Anytime at all. Good evening to you," Martin said with a faint smile - it always felt so rewarding to see doubts extinguished and faith restored. For some reason, the girl blushed, stammering a farewell and hurrying out of his sight. Martin shook his head. In the past few years it had become increasingly obvious that she was infatuated with him, a steady source of amusement for his fellow priests. Martin conceded that perhaps it was his fault - his way with people and his ready smiles _could_ be taken the wrong way, he supposed. He reassured himself that she would no doubt snap out of it in time to find a real love interest.

Martin's attention then turned to the other priest who had approached him - an Imperial like Martin, though several decades older, with streaks of grey in his reddish hair.

"You did well. They seem a lot calmer now," Brother Delwyn said quietly.

"You say that almost as if they are a flock of sheep needing to be steadied," Martin observed.

"Is such a comparison so out of place?" Delwyn murmured, giving Martin a penetrating look. "We both know people are prone to rash reactions in times of danger, crowding together, often against all logic and reason. Many of the citizens are naught but common folk, preferring to let the others think for them. They need exactly what people like us have to offer - a appeasing voice to steer their reasoning - or lack of such - in the right direction."

"People can think for themselves. If I didn't know you better, I'd call what you said a notion of arrogance," Martin said in a low voice.

"I prefer to call it responsibility. Think, Brother. They are calm now and will heed your advice well. But suppose you had instead called them to prepare for a time of changes and bloodshed, to sleep with one eye open and keep their weapons within reach at all times? How would they have reacted? You know the answer to that, I'm sure. Very soon, all the people of questionable morals you mistakenly claimed aren't in the Chapel right now as well as many others would have grabbed their weapons and tried to get the upper hand before the trouble even started. People would have grown fearful and paranoid and even mentioning a new order inside a tavern might have lead to bloodshed, simply because they would've been afraid of anything new. For all we know, it might still happen, but it has at least been postponed - simply because you - a single individual who is as prone to errors as the rest of us are - told them exactly what to believe."

Martin was silent, his brows furrowing slightly in response. He admitted half-heartedly that Brother Delwyn was right.

"You are young, Martin, and somewhat given to idealism. It is not unheard of," the Brother said with a wry, humourless smile. Martin didn't answer. He certainly didn't feel young. 'Youth' was a word he generally associated with the period of his life when he had made all of his greatest mistakes - he comforted himself that he was now past it.

"The way you put it, the whole town should rebel and slaughter each other as soon as a shipment of cakes from Skingrad fails to arrive, simply because it could be an omen of a greater crisis" Martin noted gloomily.

"Even I prefer to think the world isn't quite that hopeless," Delwyn responded with a chuckle. "Although I do wonder why you are so keen on portraying people better than they are. Good evening, Brother." With that, he took his leave.

_Because I need to believe that excluding the cold-blooded killers and murderous fanatics the citizens of the Empire are decent folk, _Martin said to himself. Making his way over to the shrine of Akatosh, he gave a bitter chuckle at the paradox of that thought. _I consider myself a good man, Gods forgive me. All these years, I have worked hard to be a good man and I certainly hope that I have achieved some measure of success. That alone should be enough proof that people aren't all black and white._

He knelt at the altar, his gaze halting briefly on the tall window that loomed above him, brilliantly glowing panes of coloured glass forming a likeness of the Dragon God of Time. He shut his eyes. Over the next minute, in his thoughts and the silently murmured words he called his patron to support and watch over the Empire.

Martin certainly didn't want to believe that the will of the Gods had anything to do with the death of the last Septims. After all, one of the Nine Divines was Tiber Septim himself, ascended after his death to become Talos, the Hero-God of War and Governance.

Standing up again, he suddenly felt some sort of presence, like a prick at his consciousness. Turning around, Martin saw a young Bosmer walking towards him and appearing distinctly uncomfortable. As the Wood Elf came to stand before him, it became obvious why; while it had been undistinguishable in the crowd of other citizens, up close there was no way Martin could fail to recognise it. The Bosmer had an aura of wrongness clinging to him like a bad smell, one easy to notice for a priest of the Divines. Furthermore, it was one that was very typical of the worshippers of the more malevolent Daedric Lords.

Martin tensed. While he wasn't about to charge the mer with a sword he had no idea what he would be looking for in a chapel of Akatosh.

"What is your business here?" he demanded.

"You are Brother Martin, correct?" the Bosmer asked.

'Yes, that's me," Martin confirmed, somewhat puzzled at how excited the Bosmer suddenly appeared.

"I'm glad I finally found you. I have come to ask for your help. My friend and travelling companion is injured. I left her not far from the town with another one of our party to watch over her. I wanted to make sure she would be safe if we brought her here for healing."

Martin hesitated. He was not sure that he wanted to help a follower of the Daedra, yet if they could brave coming in here, surely they couldn't be that evil...

"Would it not be simpler to buy her a healing potion?"

"Er, no. We've already tried potions, somehow it doesn't do her any good. I was hoping a priest might help."

"You are a follower of the Daedra. Why not turn to your Lord for help?" Martin asked, watching the Bosmer carefully. The mer looked startled, panic visible in his expression, but seemed to relax when he realised Martin wasn't about to attack him.

"We have.. er... fallen out of favour. That wouldn't be such a good idea, I think," he stammered.

Martin eyed him sceptically. He wasn't certain what he had been told was the truth, but if it was... Daedra worship gone wrong was a situation he could certainly sympathise with. He nodded.

"If you bring your friend here, we will do all that is in our power to help her. You will not be harmed."

"Er... Could you be the one to heal her?"

"Why me?" Martin asked sharply.

"I... After your speech, I thought you would be the best person to do it... So, would you be willing to heal my friend if I brought her here tomorrow morning?"

"Certainly. I'm not going anywhere," Martin sighed.

"Good," the Bosmer said, brightening visibly. "I'll be seeing you later, then," he added with a somehow chilling smile and backed away, promptly leaving the Chapel.

Martin stared after him, not knowing what to think. Some part of him whispered that he had made a mistake of some sort, yet he couldn't fathom what kind... All he had promised was that the Bosmer's friend wouldn't be harmed and that he would be here to heal her in the morning. What was the worst thing that could happen?

Martin still couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness as he left the Chapel to get a bit of fresh air. Making his way around a few of the civilians he descended the gradually sloping steps...

...and froze, his breath stopping in his throat.

_Blood red skies stretched over his head and the scent of burning wood and flesh filled his nostrils. Prayers, oaths, inhuman roars and screams of despair echoed in his ears. Kvatch was burning, walls crumbling down in an avalanche of ash, chipped wood and collapsing stones. The charred and bloody ground was littered with corpses. Monstrous creatures were cutting down the shrieking survivors, leaving the once humanoid civilians crumpled masses of bloody meat and severed limbs... A gap in the wall, as if the stone had simply been erased from existence, revealed a gateway to hell itself..._

Martin drew a ragged breath as a hand seized his shoulder and suddenly he was looking into the face of a very concerned Brother Delwyn.

"...Martin? Martin! Answer me, for Akatosh's sake! Are you alright?"

Martin looked around in a bewildered way. The buildings were sound, not a single flame in sight. Men, mer and beastfolk were making their way through the plaza. An old beggar sat with his back against the statue of Akatosh. Kvatch was whole, a peaceful city like any other under Nirn's blue sky.

"Yes! Yes, I'm alright," he stammered when Delwyn gave him a slight shake to recapture his attention. The Imperial just raised a quizzical eyebrow, frowning slightly.

"Brother, I have seen my share of corpses in the service of our God, and half of them looked better than you. Let's get you to the undercroft."

"I'm fine, I just need some air," Martin protested, carefully breaking free of Delwyn's grasp. The last thing he wanted right now was being fussed over by another person. "I've been indoors for too long. I got lightheaded for a moment."

Brother Delwyn didn't look convinced, but shrugged.

"If you say so. Otherwise, you know where to find me."

Conscious of Delwyn's concerned gaze following him, Martin nodded and walked away from the Chapel, heading in no particular direction. He stopped at the entrance to some garden or other, staring at the perfect green leaves and bright flowers in marvel. The sky was showing the first signs of dusk now, turning a somewhat orange hue, but it was a natural one that rang of peace, not the crimson sky streaked with lightning he had glimpsed moments ago...

Martin breathed deeply, half-convinced that the strange vision really had been a product of too much time spent in the sultry quarters beneath the Chapel. Too many strange things had occurred during the day and he had a gnawing feeling that it was far from the end of it. Delwyn was right - whatever he had said in the chapel in front of the people of Kvatch had only been wishful thinking, notions of idealism. One way or another, change was upon the world of Tamriel and its citizens.

Falling asleep later that night, Martin reassured himself that at the very least, they would have time to cope and adjust to the changes. As his eyelids fell shut with exhaustion, he welcomed the idea of losing himself to sleep and the quiet, restful oblivion that came with it.

He prayed that the night would be a peaceful one.


	8. He Lives in Kvatch

Candles flickered from the top of a stack of books, casting patchy illumination at the small room. A man sat at the table, both his nose and his attention buried deeply in the scroll before him and the dusty piece of parchment filled with scribbled notes. Every so often, he would leave his seat and pace, impatience visible in every motion, then sit down again.

Hurried footsteps thundered outside the door and the man barely had time to grasp a dagger before it flew open. Recognising the figure in the doorway, the man relaxed his stance. The new arrival's air of excitement only took an instant to notice, and the enthusiastic grin a mere moment to interpret.

"He has been located?" the man guessed, rising rapidly from the seat. The figure in the doorway gave him an even broader smile. Crossing the distance in a quick stride, he shoved a bundle of brand new red fabric into the other's arms.

"Pack your new robes, Brother. Tonight, we strike!"

Giving one last twitch, the candles were blown out.

xxx

Weynon Priory was a spark of stone among a mass of dripping trees and wet pastures, with the outline of Chorrol's walls only just visible in the distance. Several small houses nestled cozily in fields surrounded the main priory building, a stone archway led to what looked like the stables, with the small chapel towering at the side. Understandably, the landscape seemed rather deserted.

While the storm had ceased, it was still raining. The sky was still light as far as Liallan could tell, it couldn't be later than five in the evening. Even so, the journey would've been far quicker had she not been forced to take shelter from the storm for a full hour while crossing the Great Forest - not to mention the tiring sludge through the muddy roads the whole way. She wondered briefly if Kynareth was truly in control of the weather and if so, why the Goddess was making it so difficult for her.

Otherwise, the trip had been uneventful - apart from several unlucky couriers, she was the only one ingenious enough to travel with the rain pouring down the way it was. Even bandits seemed to have retreated into their hideouts to enjoy mugs of hot liquids by the fire. The thought pulled a wistful sigh from her.

With her cloak soaked wet and full of clinging leaves, Liallan hurried towards the main building, beckoning Grey to join her. The wolf seemed to hesitate, sniffing at the surroundings warily while water dripped from his fur, rendering him a comical figure of spiky black strands. Glancing back, Liallan scanned the surroundings but couldn't spot anything out of the ordinary - granted, she couldn't spot very much at all. Between several patches of nature mixed with Imperial-style architecture, there wasn't much to see that didn't look wet, shrunken and miserable.

Stopping at the heavy oak doors, Liallan raised her hand to knock. She waited several lingering moments during which she examined the wet, grainy wood until the door was pried open from the inside. The face of an Imperial dressed in brown robes peered through, equally brown eyes sizing her up.

"You are welcome at Weynon Priory, stranger. Why don't you come inside?" the man offered and swung the door open. He seemed to hesitate at the sight of a wet black wolf padding confidently at her heels but didn't have time to object.

"I am looking for Brother Jauffre. Is he here?" Liallan asked, taking in her surroundings. The main hall was large, if slightly cramped, cluttered with a table, chairs, bookshelves and blankets, with a stairway at the other end of the room branching to each side.

"In his study," the man replied, gesturing towards the stairway to her right. Liallan nodded and proceeded upstairs, gesturing Grey to stay, much to the priest's distress.

The study held several bookshelves and chests, but it was the man seated at the desk by the window that caught her attention as she moved closer. The Breton had noticed her almost as soon as she had entered the room, piercing brown eyes not hesitating to pin her down and make an instant assessment. His pale and wrinkled face reminded of faded, dry parchment. The crown of his head was bald, with straight grey hair on the sides pulled back into a short ponytail. He shifted forward in his seat - within easy reach of some weapon, Liallan mused. There was no mistaking the military bearing and the poised alertness characteristic of his movements as he stood to greet her - or perhaps to have a better shot at her vital body parts if things went wrong. With his mouth set into a hard line and a copy of the Black Horse Courier's latest issue resting on the desk, Liallan couldn't blame him.

"Greetings, Grandmaster," she said in a low voice, stopping at a comfortable distance. The reaction was instant, as she had expected it to be.

"Who are you?" Jauffre demanded, an unspoken threat left hanging in the air.

"My name is Liallan Fenneset," she offered, and hesitated in uncertainty when he showed no reaction. If Baurus was still alive, she had no doubt that her name would've been included in his report. With a mental sigh she reckoned that obviously the Redguard hadn't survived after all.

"I was told to bring you the Amulet of Kings." With that, she fished the bauble out of her pouch and handed it to the Breton. His eyes widened as he snatched it from her, studying it in disbelief for a moment before fixing her with his gaze again.

"You were 'told'? How did you get this?"

Liallan took a deep breath and recounted her story from the moment the Emperor had come into her cell up to her escape from the sewers, taking care to make her report brief and to the point. She didn't like the light in which the tale put her, but knew that attempt at guile on her part could very quickly lead to some hasty assumptions. Jauffre was still staring her down like a hawk, the Amulet of Kings clutched tightly in his hand. Part of her wanted to point out that she wasn't very likely to try and steal it back now, but her more sensible part insisted that it wouldn't be a good idea to antagonize the Grandmaster of the Blades.

The man in question was silent for a few moments after she had finished, his eyes narrowed in thought.

"Sit," he finally said, gesturing at a chair nearby. Liallan pulled it up to the desk and seized the opportunity to pull off her soaked cloak and hang it on the back of the chair. She was pleased to find that her armour seemed relatively dry and unaffected by the weather. Sitting down, Liallan allowed herself to relax just a tiny bit, ignoring the glare the Grandmaster was giving her wet cloak as the moisture dripped into dirty puddles on the wooden floor.

_Now all he needs to do is order some tea and biscuits and all the tension will be resolved. _The thought of the high-strung 'priest' leaning back while sipping from a cup of steaming tea in an engaging conversation by the fire almost made her chuckle, but she stifled it. It wouldn't make a very good impression to start giggling like an idiot after having just recollected the tale of the Emperor's death.

Jauffre glanced her over to ensure she wasn't going anywhere and she answered with a posture of meek attentiveness.

"As... unlikely as your story seems, I doubt anything else could account for the Amulet coming into your possession as well as you coming to seek me out," the Breton said slowly. "You said the Blade Baurus survived to direct you to me. Tell me of the other two Blades. Did you catch their names?"

He was watching her very carefully as he waited for her to answer. _Right, the truth probe. _Liallan suddenly decided that she wouldn't put tea and biscuits quite past him.

"Glenroy and Captain Renault, if I'm not mistaken," Liallan replied. _If I am, I'm likely to be in a world of trouble - assuming I'm not already._

"Captain Renault is dead, then? How did he die?"

"Like a Blade," Liallan answered somewhat bitterly. "_She_ took a blow to the chest that was meant for the Emperor." Jauffre nodded.

"Tell me what you were imprisoned for."

Liallan mentally winced._ He certainly doesn't bother with petty pleasantries. Well, I knew that one was coming, anyway._

"I was accused of attempting to murder a noble of the Council. In truth, I had killed several thugs in self-defense and that noble was a bystander. He jumped to the wrong conclusions, got a bit paranoid and I got arrested." While that wasn't the truth it was close enough, and saying the noble's accomplice had been the one to sic the thugs on her would raise too many questions.

"Of course," Jauffre said, predictably not seeming to believe her. "And the noble in question was...?"

"Alvand Cornelicus." At least her version would be roughly the same as whatever had been put into the Watch report when she was arrested, something the Grandmaster was sure to look up later.

Jauffre nodded again at the name, looking rather suspicious but not pressing the matter.

"A coincidence indeed, but the fact that you have brought me the genuine Amulet is good enough proof of your story. Tell me, are there any other details concerning the assassins that you have yet failed to mention?"

Liallan paused, then shook her head,

"No. I've told you what their armour looked like, and what they used as their battlecry. They hadn't been carrying anything you'd use as a means of identification. There wasn't anything else."

"Very well," he sighed in resignation. "That brings us to the matter of dealing with his Highness's last request. You must go find the heir as he commanded-"

"Wait, wait. Whoever said I was going to be a part of this?" Liallan protested, rising rapidly from the chair. The Breton squinted somewhat scornfully at her, as if upset she was no longer in her place.

"Technically, the Emperor did, but I understand you'd want another reason. _Sit,_" he insisted. She shrugged and did as she was told, leaning forward restlessly and lifting an eyebrow at Jauffre. The Breton looked away, silent for a few moments, then spoke up again, his voice slow and deliberate.

"You should be the one to go, at the moment there isn't anyone better suited for finding the heir."

"You're Grandmaster of the Blades. You can't seriously be telling me there's no one-"

"The Blades are a very discreet order, we guard our secrets jealously," Jauffre interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Our duty is to the Dragonborn and our top priority is to serve and protect the Emperor and his family. Yet despite our best efforts, three of the Emperor's sons are killed in quick succession and Uriel Septim himself is ambushed by assassins in his own secret escape passage. More than anything, this indicates that our system isn't as reliable as it should be. Our efforts have already failed Emperor Uriel and I'll not risk his last son's life as well by relying on the Blades, at least not until the flaw in our system has been discovered and eliminated. However, we do not have that much time." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to a whisper. "The fact that you got into this by coincidence means that neither my Blades nor our enemies know who you are. Therefore, you are the best choice."

"So you've cleared that up. But what's to stop me from agreeing to this and then running off to do something else?"

At this, Jauffre's lips lifted into just the hint of a confident smirk.

"Seeing as you are an escaped convict, that would be most unwise. The Legion tend to be as touchy about the Imperial Prison's reputation as they are about the establishment itself, and while your escape has gone largely unnoticed beside the assassinations, they need only a gentle reminder."

Liallan stared for a moment while she took that in. Then she gave a humourless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Threats aren't usually the best way to ensure undying loyalty," she said, glowering at the Breton. "If this is the way you convert new members for the Blades then it's no wonder you've failed to-"

"I do not need your loyalty, only a guarantee that you will complete this one task. Can I count on that, or will you take the unreasonable approach?" He paused, watching her carefully. Liallan briefly wondered exactly what would happen if she decided on the latter, right up to his face. She resolved not to satisfy her own curiosity.

"Fine," she shot a glare at him. While she didn't have any strong feelings regarding getting mixed into the whole affair, she still preferred to have a choice. Simply being forced and especially threatened into doing something filled her with a sense of disdain. "I'll do what the Blades are supposed to do and fetch the Emperor's heir. Now tell me what I need to know."

Jauffre nodded, apparently satisfied.

"Years ago, back when I was Captain of Emperor Uriel's bodyguards, I was called into his quarters late at night." The Breton's eyes clouded in remembrance. "He presented me with a sleeping baby and told me to bring him to safety. He never said much else, but I knew the boy was his son. Later, he would occasionally inquire as to the child's progress." He hesitated, studying Liallan for a moment before continuing. "The Emperor's illegitimate son is a closely guarded secret, but so was the escape passage. If our enemies are aware of him, as it is likely, he is in terrible danger. You must leave at once, there is no time to lose."

Liallan cringed at that - she'd certainly been looking forward to hours and hours of rest, but reluctantly admitted that the Breton was right.

"Get to the point, if you will," she said with a sigh.

"His name is Martin, he is a priest of the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch. Tall stature, brown hair, blue eyes, takes after his father. Currently thirty-three years old. Do not tarry - you must find him and bring him here as quickly as possible. And remember: I am entrusting you with his safety and will hold you personally responsible for any harm that comes to him."

"I have no doubt," Liallan said dryly, rising from the chair. This time he didn't seem to protest. "What about the Amulet?"

"You don't need to concern yourself with that," he answered evasively.

Liallan shrugged and gathered up her cloak. She had been intending to dry it up before the fire but even though the rain was ceasing, it probably wouldn't do her much good. Flinching at the feel of the moist fabric against her body, Liallan turned her back on the Grandmaster and descended down the stairs.

The day only seemed to be getting longer.


	9. When Skies Turn Red

There was a strange scent on the air.

It was subtle enough that Liallan wasn't able to name it, but it was still there. As she moved progressively closer to Kvatch, the smell showed no signs of fading. That, and Grey's uneasiness, put her on edge, but seeing as she didn't know what to make of it, she settled to ignore it.

It had taken her the rest of the evening and all of the night to get from Weynon Priory to the woods east of Kvatch. The monks had been generous, providing her with several extra potions and scrolls. Most notably, Prior Maborel had lent her his paint horse, whom he affectionately called 'Dapple'. She was now eternally grateful for the mare - the walk would've been the end of her otherwise. Even with the wet and rough terrain, she had been able to cross through the Great Forest rather than doubling back on the road, had passed Skingrad and stolen a few hours of sleep in a hollow log somewhere on the way - delaying any longer probably wouldn't have been a good idea.

She was now within minutes of sighting Kvatch, the mare trotting easily with Grey several steps ahead.

What the Grandmaster had said had been troubling enough, but Liallan believed that two closely-guarded secrets would be more difficult to obtain than one, and that her task would be a simple job of go-and-fetch. She was now busy mulling over the conversation ahead of her. According to Jauffre, the Emperor's last heir thought himself to be a simple farmer's son, completely oblivious to his true heritage. She'd need to use some choice words if she was to convince him to follow her without having to knock him unconscious and tie him up. Admittedly, that would work just as well, but Liallan preferred the future Emperor of Tamriel not to have a grudge against her.

Liallan frowned as she tried to imagine exactly what kinds of complications could arise. With her luck, she'd probably catch the heir right in the middle of being attacked by assassins. Alternatively, he could already be dead, a scenario that wasn't at all pleasing to think about. Even if the assassins didn't know where or who he was, it was possible they had an inkling of who to watch out for. Riding into the city in a rush and leaving with a priest minutes later would certainly attract attention. Either way, she'd need to be discreet, and she couldn't afford to waste time.

Dapple, the otherwise perfectly calm mare, suddenly snorted and tried to pull at the reins. Liallan was so busy trying to steady her that she nearly missed the view ahead of her. Finally looking up, the Dunmer froze in shock.

A good portion of the woody area known as the Imperial Preserve was spread out before her, with the mountain atop which rested Kvatch visible against the horizon. Yet the sight was anything but idyllic. It was as if a thick, dense thundercloud was hovering above the city, only it was a muddy shade of fiery red, as if a blanket of hell itself was threatening to engulf the city any moment. She could see the jagged silhouettes of spiny, claw-like constructions rising from the ground that she knew hadn't been there before, and there were sheets of thick black smoke snaking up from within the city walls.

Liallan felt as if a bloke of ice had just dropped into her stomach. Very suddenly, she felt that she could venture a good guess as to the origin of the strange smell, which, now that she thought of it, reminded her rather strongly of... _No, don't think of that, it may not actually be that bad,_ she tried to reassure herself, failing miserably. She let out a breath she hadn't know she had been holding and spurred the reluctant mare into a canter.

Suddenly, what little time she had lost weighed down on her like a suit of lead armour, and as she pushed her horse further on, Kvatch never seemed to be getting any closer.

xxx

The screams had quieted down somewhat. The only sounds by now were moans of pain and despair, cries, desperate prayers and the occasional high-pitched squeal of someone who was having one of those barbed arrows made of daedric steel pulled out of their body. And even these originated in the Chapel itself, echoing off the cold, hard walls. Outside, it was nearly silent - there were only the noises made by the inhuman invaders and the crackle of flames eating away at the homes - _their_ homes, he reminded himself with a jolt of dull anger.

Martin gently unwrapped the makeshift bandages, trying not to hear Rellia's whimpers of pain. He winced slightly at the sight of the wounds beneath, not only out of sympathy but also because of how demanding they would be to heal. The girl's arm and shoulder were a bloody mess and his head was aching badly from the countless healing spells he had had to perform - arguably more than he had ever done in his life.

Martin had trouble concentrating but once again he brought his focus to order, screwing his eyes shut and mouthing the incantation, the tips of his fingers tingling as they brushed the bloody flesh underneath. After what seemed like an eternity of forcefully persuading the magic to get into place, he heard the girl's breathing relax slightly. His head was heavy as he pried his lids open again to survey his work. He had done a decent job, considering the circumstances - with some luck the girl would even be able to use the arm again, seeing as the bones hadn't been visibly damaged...

_If __any of us survive this night, that is._

Rellia struggled to control her sobs as she nodded a thanks and lay back against the blanket, closing her eyes. Martin felt like an old man as he got back to his feet, swaying slightly. He walked groggily to the next patient, even though it felt like every last drop of magicka in his body had been sucked dry. Even so, he was determined to do some good even if it killed him, which didn't feel all that unprobable at the moment.

Martin was both relieved and reluctant when Brother Delwyn stopped him, insisting on taking the next shift. The Imperial had taken a head wound and healing surely couldn't be any more comfortable for him, but Martin felt drained in every way possible and knew that more harm than good could come of pushing himself too hard. As tired as he was, he still made a mental note to relieve Brother Delwyn before too long.

Martin sunk to the floor, his back against a pillar. His shoulder was lightly brushing against that of an old Nord woman and he shifted away so as not to wake her - she actually seemed to be dozing.

The Chapel had been spontaneously converted to serve as the last refuge of the citizens of Kvatch. It was now filled with blankets, bedrolls and sacks of provisions from the Chapel quarters. Even though the items took up a great deal of space, it pained Martin to see how empty the Chapel appeared. Kvatch was - no, _had been_ - nearly the most prominent city of Cyrodiil, a jewel of the West Weald, second only to the Imperial City itself. Like the capital of the Empire, it had even had its own arena, never to mention guild halls, stores and countless homes that housed a few hundred people at the very least.

There were now perhaps two dozen taking refuge in the Chapel.

Martin shook his head in disbelief - while he knew many of the citizens had attempted to escape the city through the main gate, he was rather sceptical of their chances. He presumed that he ought to be enraged at the notion, but the anger had long run out - as it was, he was far too weary to feel anything past despair, endless bitterness and numbing exhaustion.

The normally serene light falling through the stained glass windows now had a sinister reddish tint to it - it had been that way since the moment he had woken up in the middle of the night. He had been shaken back into consciousness by the rumble outside - an earthquake, he had foolishly believed, until he had run up into the Chapel, where the screams, the fires and the red sky had been all too easy to notice. With the other priests, Martin had made several desperate sorties into the city, trying to herd those who were still alive into the Chapel. Martin had entertained the idea of attempting to break free for the city gate - until he saw what lay beyond. It was a doorway spun from fiery energies, stretched between stony spines with blood-tipped edges like an animal's hide. By the recognisable monsters that had been pouring out of it he concluded that the doorway actually led to Oblivion, which was literally hell itself. In contradiction to all he knew, the portal had showed no signs of closing, even though it was supposed to be impossible to create any sort of stable gateway between Nirn and Oblivion - the magical barriers separating the two planes made sure of that.

As it was, the gateway had not only been stable but had lasted long enough to provide entrance to a massive siege machine, a monster of magic and mechanics that resembled an immense caterpillar, its maw ejecting blasts of fire that had quickly reduced the seemingly invincible stone walls into rubble in a matter of seconds and had then proceeded to tear down building after building.

Martin didn't know what kind of luck or circumstance had saved the Chapel of Akatosh from the same fate, yet divine intervention hardly seemed likely. He had called to the Gods whenever there had been a moment of respite, a minute to interrupt the mindless flight and skirmishes with daedra - yet no help had come. Perhaps the fact that the Chapel had been left standing at all was the Gods' idea of divine favour but given the current situation, Martin doubted it. One way or another, the siege machine had vanished, perhaps having gone back to Oblivion, but the city was still burning and the streets still crawling with monsters, making the chances of the refugees' continued survival virtually nonexistent. Praying to the Gods had never felt so futile.

Kvatch, glorious, beautiful Kvatch had been reduced to a smoking ruin littered with bodies, sightless eyes staring up at the bloody sky... The fact that this was exactly the image of Kvatch Martin had glimpsed the previous evening - lifetimes ago, it now seemed - was a trail of thought he tried very hard not to pursue. Instead, he found himself wondering about things he was even less able to answer. What was the reason behind the attack? What could one possibly achieve by destroying a city and slaughtering its citizens? Martin couldn't for the life of him think of an answer. Nothing. Absolutely nothing...

_Except for chaos and terror among the masses._

It hadn't been just daedra. Fire atronachs and huge daedroths, scamps and clannfear had been bad enough, but they were creatures of Oblivion and as such not to be judged by the rules of any other plane. But there had been mortals with them, clad in armour the like of which he had never seen before - intricate designs in dark silver metal, mottled by splashes of red fabric - armour that vanished to reveal dark red robes when the wearer was killed. Somehow word had gotten out that the mortals were the ones truly responsible for the catastrophe, that they had assassinated most of the guards on duty, thus preventing the city from reacting to the attack until it was too late. Whatever Lord of Oblivion had ordered the destruction of their homes, he had had more than enough mortal accomplices to help him orchestrate it.

Martin had taken down one such assailant only to recognise a familiar face. The Bosmer that had come into the Chapel tense and reeking of Daedra worship had been staring at Martin in surprise from within the crimson hood - another part of the riddle he wasn't able to place.

"Brother Martin?" came a soft, familiar voice, and even though it was strained and full of pain it still felt like a glimpse back in the past, as if Kvatch was still whole and the evening service had just ended... Martin almost didn't answer out of reluctance to shatter that precious illusion...

"How is your arm?" Martin inquired as the girl settled beside him, shivering slightly. She gave him a slow, weak smile, all the while staring into him as if she wasn't quite seeing him.

"Better, thank you," she answered. They were both silent then. Rellia was gazing into space somewhere ahead of her, unconsciously edging closer to Martin for comfort, almost as if he was the last person in the world she could still trust...

"Rellia..." Martin began, not trusting himself to speak, "...your family...?"

The Breton girl hesitated, frowning slightly as if contemplating a puzzle she couldn't quite grasp.

"They were inside when the 'Crawler' came. They didn't get out in time," she muttered, looking somewhat befuddled. Martin exhaled slowly, the bitterness welling up to a new level. 'Crawler' - what a strange and yet oddly fitting name for the device of horror that had taken so many lives in a single breath...

"I'm sorry," he murmured very softly, reaching out to gently grasp the girl's healthy shoulder. She didn't seem to notice, but suddenly frowned again,

"Are you?" Rellia fell quiet again, staring before her as Martin tried to understand what she meant. He was spared further troubles when she spoke up again, "In the Chapel. In the evening. You said we'd be alright." Her voice was empty, detached, yet it still carried just the right message and Martin felt his throat constrict with realisation. His fanciful speech in front of the populace, his promises and assurances, it now all felt like a malicious lie.

He was at loss of what to say. Granted, he hadn't known anything like this would happen, but saying that aloud was too much like trying to make an excuse, whereas he knew that he had done nothing wrong...

Nothing wrong, that is, except saying something that wasn't true.

Now, in the red light of Oblivion skies, with the reek of their burning homes and the mangled bodies of their loved ones filling the air, it felt painfully obvious. It didn't really matter what they told the populace - just one small handful of men who were 'unreasonable', evil and outright bent on destruction was all it would ever take to make other people suffer - regardless of their own actions, their own ways of dealing with evil and the everyday troubles of their lives. No matter where you lived and how lowly a peasant you were, there was no escaping from the consequences of bad decisions made by other people - people you'd never meet, people you'd never wronged in any way, people against whom you had no more of a grudge than they had against you...

_It takes so little to destroy the world,_ Martin thought.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

And suddenly, he was.


	10. One Hell of a Complication

_Emperor or not, there's no way I'm going into that,_ Liallan thought fiercely as she reached the top of the plateau and caught sight of the spectacle. Beneath the heavy red sky, Kvatch lay before her, a ruined shadow of its former glory. The walls were partially ruined, the city showing signs of having been assaulted simultaneously from many sides. The main gate had been shattered into pieces but whatever lay beyond was completely obscured by another gateway of a completely different kind. Stationed before the crumbled entrance to the city was a portal wreathed in flames, surrounded by stony spines shooting up from the ground. The ground was charred and worn and dotted with bodies both of the slain daedra as well as the fallen defenders of the city. Even as she hurried closer, those soldiers who were still alive attacked the group of clannfear that had just stepped out of the portal, picking them off with arrows from behind a hastily-constructed barricade.

Liallan unslung her bow and joined the fray, loosing arrow after arrow at the clannfear as some of them circled around the barricade to get to the mortals while others tried to tear down the tipped stakes. After ensuring her approval, Grey rushed forward, biting and clawing at the back of a daedra as the soldier it was fighting veered out of the way of its attack. Within a few moments the rest of the daedra were dispatched, but Liallan didn't fail to notice how fatigued the watchmen of Kvatch seemed, the little skirmish having sapped away at their already meager reserves of energy. Most were sporting injuries of some sort, and all of them seemed to be dead exhausted.

Striding to confront the group Liallan was stopped by one of the guards, an Imperial with a gruff face and short-trimmed hair.

"Who are you? This is no place for civilians," his voice had the ring of authority, but the bitterness and exhaustion nearly obscured it.

"Well, in that case I'll let you conclude that I'm not a civilian," Liallan answered dryly, frowning slightly at the smell that was currently assaulted her nose. "What exactly happened here?"

"What happened? We lost the damn city is what happened!" the guard exclaimed, his features twisting briefly to reflect every ounce of the pain he felt. "It was the middle of the night, the city was asleep, when suddenly Oblivion Gates opened right outside the city! A massive siege engine took the walls down before anything could be done. From there, it was just the daedra, the people, and us, the guards, trying to get everyone somewhere into safety even though most of the time you didn't know if there was a man or a daedra standing behind you..." His voice lowered to a bitter whisper. "It was just too much, too fast... We never had a chance."

Liallan stared at the Oblivion Gate as she listened, attempting to imagine the horror that was visited upon this city of Cyrodiil. After a moment's silence, she asked quietly,

"And what is the current situation?"

"Most of the populace has been killed," the guard said, as if having trouble believing it. "Either in their homes, when the siege engine struck, or in the streets, cut down by the daedra. A few made it out of the city, I suppose you've seen them on the way here. However, most of the survivors are trapped in the Chapel. They can't get out since the city is still crawling with daedra. We'd go in and clear them out, but so long as that Gate over there remains open, it's unthinkable. First of all, if we left our positions the daedra would be free to assault the camp. But even if it weren't for that, we can't rush into battle with that thing at our backs. We'd find ourselves attacked from two sides, which would probably equal suicide." The Imperial fell silent for a moment, then gave a mock laugh. "I apologise. It seems I'm forgetting my manners. I am Savlian Matius, Captain of the Kvatch guard, and while I can't imagine why you would want to get involved, I welcome any help you can provide." He shook his head in bitter amusement, appearing bewildered by the idea that manners and etiquette still mattered in any way.

"Help with what?" Liallan demanded. "Do you have a plan, or are you just sitting here, waiting for a miracle to happen?"

"In a certain way, you could say," Savlian replied with a heavy sigh. "As I explained, our problem lies with the Gate. However, we know it's possible to close it, since the enemy has closed the original one." He paused and stared at the burning portal with equally incinerating anger. "I've sent a score of our lads into there. They were supposed to find a way to close it. They haven't come back," he added softly. "I can't spare any more men to send into that Gate. As of now, our hands are tied. There isn't much to do other than stand our ground, kill anything that comes out of that Gate, and... yes, wait for any developments. Pray..."

His expression was gloomy as he turned away to answer the summons of another guard,

Liallan shook her head in disbelief as she stared at the remains of the city and mulled over the events of the last minutes. She had ridden to Kvatch as fast as Dapple's legs would carry her and had then left the mare hidden in the woods. Walking up the mountainside, she had found herself confronted with the news of Kvatch's fate for the first time.

The makeshift camps of distressed survivors had been a sorry sight. Some of them huddled together in small groups, speaking quietly. Most of them had been brooding and withdrawn, a few were crying. No fires had been lit - from their tales she supposed they had all had their share of fire for the time being.

One of the survivors had been raving mad, screaming something about how the Gods had abandoned them and how Tamriel was to face its own doom. Now, standing before the city and surveying the aftermath, Liallan felt inclined to agree.

Martin, the priest, had not been among them, a fact that caused her no small amount of distress. While she sympathised for the city, she had no doubts whatsoever about what she would've done had he been in the camp, but no, things just had to go and get difficult.

Thus, Liallan found herself in a predicament. The survivors, hopefully including the would-be Emperor, were trapped in the city for as long as the Gate was standing. After all these hours, it seemed unlikely that it would close by itself. Those sent inside hadn't returned, and the guards could be of no further help...Which left her with two options - one, really, if she wanted to scavenge any sort of success from this disaster.

The Oblivion Gate was humming softly on the other side of the battlefield. The fiery edges looked expectant, almost inviting.

"Sweet gods and demons, you've got to be kidding," Liallan swore under her breath. _Oh no, there is just no way I am going on a stroll through Hell with a foolish hope of accomplishing something a score of experienced, hardened guards failed to do - a hell that has spawned enough monsters to destroy an entire city in a few hours, no less. I might as well jump off a cliff instead, the result would probably be the same._

Several minutes passed. A few more daedra came out - with a daedroth this time - and were cut down by the guards. The Gate showed no signs of wearing down, fading, or anything else that might possibly indicate that it had a life expectance of any sort and that it was coming to an end. The guards could probably keep this up for a few more hours, but with each passing minute their swords grew a little heavier and their minds a little foggier, and every new mistake they made had a chance of being the last...

All that infernal cloud cover didn't seem to be lifting, either.

_Seriously? I know _nothing_ about the realm of Oblivion. How do I even know if the place has_ breathable air?

Another minute.

Time might as well have been standing still. It was obvious _nothing_ was going to change until _someone_ did something about it.

And the only person who was currently available was...

_Nope, no way._

"Garth, get down to the camp. Tell the people to pack their possessions as quickly as they can and head to the crossroads. Let us know when they do, we'll escort the lot of them east to Skingrad..." the Captain's voice interrupted her reverie.

"Sir, what about the city and those in the Chapel?"

"We've already lost the city, dammit! As for the survivors, there isn't anything we can do for them right now. So we can either stay here until the daedra finally finish us off, or we could make ourselves useful and keep those outside of the city safe. That bloody Gate can't remain open forever. We'll take care of the daedra in the city as soon as it closes, so let's just pray to the Gods that it will still be any good."

"Sir," another guard approached the Captain, and the one to have been appointed messenger seemed reluctant to leave, "Surely there's still something we can do short of abandoning them to their fate? We could make a sortie, get them out as quickly as possible, stay back to-"

"Vesilius, think about it. A lot of them are injured, many may not be fit to walk. How quickly do you think they would be able to move? How would we control the situation, with daedra pouring in from all sides?"

"We could distract them, we could..."

Liallan sighed. In all her years, she had hardly done anything that was truly crazy, stupid, or suicidal. In fact, she rather prided in keeping a cool head and making sensible decisions at all times... Granted, it hadn't always kept her out of trouble...

"Captain!" she called to the man, interrupting the debate. Matius turned to look at her. "Abandoning the city is _not_ an option."

"Then tell me what other choice we have!" he replied bitterly.

"How long has it been since you sent the men into that Gate?" She asked calmly.

"It's hard to keep track with a sky like that, but it's been too long. If they had any chance of succeeding they would've already done so. You're not actually intending to follow them, are you?"

Liallan sighed._ Here goes..._

"I am. All I ask is that you and your men stay here for a few more hours. If I'm not back, act however you see fit. If I close the Gate, we'll take back the city. In the meantime, they should try to get some rest."

Savlian was staring at her, shaking his head softly.

"You... You're serious, aren't you? Well, you don't look like you could possibly take on that Gate, but it's still a chance. Good luck, then. If you find the men, help them finish the job. If not... do it on your own."

"Right." Liallan crossed the barricade, gesturing Grey to stay. She couldn't guess how the wolf would react to whatever lay on the other side of that portal and preferred it if he stayed on Nirn. Nearing the Gate, she heard Savlian Matius call at her,

"Hey! You've got a name, Dunmer?"

"Yes, I do," Liallan said, not caring to satisfy his curiosity any further.

She was in front of the Gate now and while the fire didn't actually seem that hot, the surface was blinding to look at. With one hand shielding her eyes she took a deep breath, choked on a lungful of ash, drew her sword and crossed the remaining distance to the portal. She could feel the scalding energy - not quite heat - inches in front of her.

Liallan hesitated, uncertain what to do next. Slowly, she raised her arm and reached out, ready to pull back any moment as she slowly plunged her palm into the rippling surface of the doorway...

_What a peculiar sensation, feeling that tingling in your hand and knowing it's just your blood crossing into a different plane and out again to flow back to your heart... If I survive this, I'll look up how planar travel actually works... Yep, there's a good motivation._

_I'm actually doing this, aren't I? Of all the unreasonable ideas I've ever had, this one will beat the record._

Liallan took a deep gulp of what was perhaps her last taste of Nirn air.

_To hell with reason._

Liallan chuckled at the pun.

And then she stepped through.


	11. Dark Cotton

There weren't any trees.

There were rocks, huge boulders as well as vast jagged cliffs, rising up like shards of shattered daggers. The ground was hard and ashen, covered in web-like cracks, many of them oozing lava. A lake of the same scorching liquid was spread out not far from her. The Oblivion Gate itself looked just the same, a flaming tear in the fabric of the universe. There were slabs of stone forming segments of walls, pierced by twisted black spikes tipped with blood and a few obelisks with strange runes on them. Everything seemed to pulsate with a glaring red hue. The tall, bony towers in the distance were only just visible in the shroud of reddish dust. Combined with the sky, which took on a truly searing shade of crimson this side of the rift, all the red was painful to look at.

And no, there weren't any trees.

Taking slow, experimental breaths, Liallan observed that while she was definitely feeling a pair of lungs shorter, she didn't seem about to suffocate. _Thank the gods for small favours,_ Liallan thought, resolving to add the unexplicable presence of air to her list of things to be appreciated and not questioned.

Of course, there was still the _heat_. Liallan was Dunmer by birth and as such was considerably insensitive to excesses of warmth in all its forms, but the air was still hot enough to make her want to crawl into a lake somewhere in Skyrim and stay there for the rest of her life. It was already making her skin sweat and her eyes water and she blinked furiously to clear them. It was bearable, but only just. She couldn't possibly imagine how it would feel for a non-Dunmer.

Standing out in the open amidst the reddish illumination, Liallan felt uncomfortably exposed. The feeling doubled when a daedroth stomped into view, the scaly muscled limbs, terrifying claws and huge teeth set in equally huge jaws all too recognisable. Before the creature could see her, Liallan edged away, hiding from its sight behind a slab of rock. She was about to unsling her bow when a glance back at the creature revealed a second daedroth join the first. Liallan swore silently, ducking back behind the rock. With one daedroth, she still had a chance of killing it without attracting much attention, but with two, it just wouldn't work. As much as she hated to leave the pair of monsters between her and the only way out - she assumed that the Gate would work both ways, simply because the implications were otherwise too terrifying to consider - she didn't have a choice.

Moving in quick dashes between outcroppings of rock and carefully staying out of sight of the daedra, Liallan made her way in the only available direction - all others were sealed off either by lava or cliffs too steep to climb. She passed several scamps digging around in the dirt, leaving them undisturbed.

Moving past another rock Liallan walked right into a clannfear.

Both Liallan and the creature recoiled in surprise. In the next instant, the lizard-like daedra sprang forward, jaws open wide and clawed forefeet outstretched, its tail lashing furiously. Trapped against the rock, Liallan kicked out, her boot landing on the creature's jaw. The daedra yowled and staggered. Liallan seized the opportunity to draw her blade and drive it deep into the clannfear's chest. It stiffened, then crumpled to the ground, the last few spasms of its tail beating up a cloud of dust.

Quickly wiping her sword on the creature's hide, Liallan was about to make a getaway before the daedra's cry could attract any more monsters, but stopped in her tracks. She saw the limp figure of a human on the ground - a man, she could tell by the wide chest and powerful shoulders. He was wearing a bloody and ruined suit of chainmail armour, complete with the crest of Kvatch - a black wolf head on a white background, the white slits of its eyes narrowed dangerously - one of the guards, then. There wasn't much to go by for further identification. His face had been partially eaten out - the clannfear's presence here suddenly seemed very logical - one of his legs was missing, and the rest of him was an assemblage of deep gashes, burn marks, claw, fang and blade wounds.

Liallan spent a moment staring, then hurried away, not daring to glance back. She felt her resolve weakening, but knew she had no choice but to move forward. If she didn't do this, she wouldn't be able to get to the Chapel and would need to turn back...

And then what? Liallan nearly hesitated as the thought struck her. _Yes, the survivors at the Chapel might eventually die, unless things work out like Savlian hopes they do, but I'll be alive, won't I? Alive, hopefully whole, and planes away from _this...

A set of curved spikes several times her own height suddenly rose from the ground, nearly skewering her. Shaking her head at the strangeness and hostility of this realm, Liallan pondered the idea and dismissed it. _Even if the high and mighty Grandmaster of the Blades doesn't kill me for abandoning the Emperor's son - and while I doubt he could make it much worse than _this_ I wouldn't put it quite past him... Even if he spares me and merely makes my life a living hell... I have a hunch that leaving the heir to die simply isn't a very smart thing to do..._

_No, no matter if I like it or not - and I'm pretty sure where I stand in _that_ regard - I still have to do this. I just need to be extra careful and make sure I don't find myself cornered, outnumbered, or any other things that will inevitably lead me to share the same fate as that guard back there._

_Of course, I could get captured, and that would be even worse..._

Now that Liallan had made up her mind about things to avoid, she took care to keep out of sight as she approached an immense gate. The doors were massive slabs of red and black stone looming high above her. She couldn't even begin to fathom the mechanism that manipulated the hinges...

Quite a distance behind the gate, she could make out a monolithic tower, an intense yellow light glaring down at her from the top. This monster of architecture, all spikes and sharp, unforgiving edges, was many times vaster than the smaller towers surrounding it like ants clustered around their queen. Precariously thin bridges hung like lifelines between the queen and her servants, dozens of feet above the ground, unforgiving of any too clumsy to cross it.

If the smaller towers didn't have the look of being completely uninhabitable, Liallan would've guessed it to be a city.

And if size was in any way related to importance, as it tended to be, this was where she needed to go.

Which left her with the problem of dealing with the closed gate. It felt a bit anti-climactic.

Seeing as the entire body of architecture was surrounded by lava, the gate providing the only entrance, it was clear Liallan wouldn't be finding a detour any time soon. Studying the gates again, she noted the towers that stood on either side of them, with the gates stretched between them. If there was any way to open the gates, this would be it.

There were also stakes holding heads, bodies and separate body parts spread around the gate. An unnecessary reminder.

Liallan crept closer, hugging the rocks, ready to dart into cover any moment. She wasn't quite sure what she would do once inside the tower, but she hardly had the means to compose a reasonable plan...

The gate was now close enough to blot out a fair part of the sky. Suddenly the flat slab of rock at the base of one of the towers parted, allowing a figure to pass through. Liallan had dealt with conjurers often enough to recognise the armour in an instant's notice. Before the Dremora could spot her - luckily it wasn't looking in her direction - she backed away, pressing herself against a stone pillar.

This was it - Dremora were immeasurably more intelligent than the regular monsters and would be much more difficult to avoid. It occurred to her that they could easily be more intelligent than the races of Nirn, but that idea wasn't helping...

Her eyes not leaving the threatening figure, she reached for her bow and was completely unprepared for the sudden pressure that encircled her arm and the sharp jerk that followed.

Whirling around and failing to pull away, Liallan saw spiky, leafless vines the colour of burned meat strengthen their hold on her arm in an attempt to penetrate the armour, with more clawing at the rest of her body. She cried out in pain as the spikes slipped past the folds of her glove and bit into her wrist. Drawing a dagger, her free hand lashed at the vines, severing their grasp. The tendrils stretched longingly towards her as she staggered away, yanking the remains of them out of her arm.

Liallan suddenly felt very light-headed and flailed wildly in an attempt to catch herself as she toppled over but her limbs felt heavy and reluctant to move. She knew what was happening... She had spent countless hours of frustration and headache learning and honing to perfection the spell suited specifically to situations like these, the spell that would quickly drive almost any poison out of her system, but mouthing the incantation was like trying to sing while having cotton forced down her throat...

She thought she heard the clank of armoured boots and an alarm bell went off somewhere deep in the blocked part of her consciousness.

Then, there was just darkness and more cotton.

Dark cotton?

A _lot_ of cotton.


	12. The Perks of Dunmer Heritage

As Liallan groggily drifted back to consciousness, she reflected that, once again, her face was pressed rather uncomfortably against something hard. She opened her eyes, blinking in confusion. As realisation dawned, her heart did a few somersaults. Liallan shot upright only to bang her head. She winced, screwed her eyes shut at the pain, and opened them again.

Staring past the charred, blood-splattered bars of a cage, hung up in the smothering air, she saw a circular room of sorts, crafted from the same dark red granite she was already familiar with. There was an opening in the ceiling, the heavy sky above flooding the room with red illumination. The jagged and toothed surfaces of the walls cast bloody shadows. There was a walkway by the wall descending somewhere beyond her sight. She could also see another cage with a limp humanoid figure inside hung up opposite of her, as well as a fountain that gushed a liquid that looked remarkably like blood - what purpose that could serve, she didn't want to know. Glancing down past her feet, Liallan noticed that both cages were hung above an opening in the floor, dropping away to show a deep drop to the floor below, the walkway spiralling downwards along the walls. At the bottom of the pit, there was something like a fire burning. The fact that the heat didn't seem to reach her provided only a fleeting comfort.

Once more, the armour had been stripped of her, leaving only the shirt and breeches. It was getting a bit too familiar.

Liallan breathed deeply in a desperate attempt to curb the oncoming wave of panic. This was it - she'd made a silly blunder and managed to get herself taken prisoner - on a plane of Oblivion, no less. She'd heard the various tales of what demons did to mortals when left to themselves, but now didn't seem like a grand time to recollect them.

She searched the bars, finally locating a heavy piece of mechanics that roughly resembled a lock. She then rummaged around in her hair, retrieving several lockpicks.

For a few very long moments, Liallan fumbled with the lock until the first tool snapped loudly. The soft material was no match for the granite-hard daedric steel. She cursed and inserted a new one.

_Happy now?_ _Knocked out by a _plant_, of all things. _Liallan paused the lockpicking to cast the cure poison spell, driving the last traces of lightheadedness away. _I must've been unconscious for hours, too. Even if I do manage to escape, chances are Savlian and the others are already gone and it won't do me a shred of good. And speaking of escaping, how am I supposed to make it through a stronghold of daedra to do whatever it is I need to do, of which I don't even have the faintest idea? I should've known better than to come here..._

"Hey, you! The Dunmer," came a raspy voice from her right. Glancing sideways she saw the occupant of the other cage shift and lean closer to the bars in an attempt to study her. He was human, probably Imperial or Breton, although it was hard to tell beneath all the ash, dirt and bruises. Whoever he was, it seemed he was already acquainted with the business end of Dremora hospitality.

"Who are you?" she demanded, returning her attention back to the lock.

"My name is Menien Goneld. I am a Journeyman of the Mages Guild. Not that it matters here," he added with something between a laugh and a cough, gasping in pain. "But really, I should... I should be asking the same of you. I've never seen you before and I can't think why a stranger would find themselves near Kvatch anytime soon."

"You're right. I was sent to find one of the citizens, but I needed to get past the Gate. Savlian Matius couldn't spare any more men, so I volunteered."

"Idiot."

"Quite right."

"You went in alone? How did you plan to do it?"

"By sneaking around, discovering how to close the Gate, and closing it. I was doing all right until some plant nearly killed me..."

"Ah, harrada vines," the man gave a dry chuckle in a voice that clearly said 'amateur', "there are some that will merely paralyze you, so if you're a talented enough magician to cast with only your mind, you might still break free before the plant drains you of your blood. However, the nastier varieties will paralyze as well as silence you. Since the plant mostly feeds on the hardier daedra, the poison is strong enough to knock most mortals out - thankfully. Harrada are a nasty piece of work. You should stay away from them."

"I gathered as much," Liallan replied sarcastically, cursing when another lockpick shattered to pieces. Her progress in unhooking the tumblers was infuriatingly slow. As she absorbed the information, she found herself asking, "And how do you know all that?"

"I said I was of the Mages Guild. There are many of us with exotic interests... I am rather knowledgeable about the plane of Oblivion," the man answered evasively, making Liallan roll her eyes.

"Hasn't done you much good," she noted.

"Yes. I must admit, a major part of why I volunteered to try and close the Gate was because I wanted to catch a glimpse of the plane I have been studying so much... I'd say my curiosity is satisfied," he added with another chuckle devoid of humour.

"If you're a mage, can't you just blast your way out of that cage? Break the lock with telekinesis? Anything?

"Believe me, I've tried, but the bars are highly magic-resistant. I never learned telekinesis but I doubt that would work, either."

Liallan wasn't paying attention any longer, as she thought herself to be nearing a breakthrough in what concerned the lockpicking business. She shut her eyes, concentrating only on the feel of the the spindly tool beneath her fingertips - such a little thing, yet so powerful in the right hands... She could tell the next tumbler was about to slide open, it was only a matter of a few moments...

The sound of heavy boots clanking up the walkway interrupted her. Eyes snapping open, Liallan cursed silently, leaving the lockpick inside and moving away from the bars. On her right, Menien Goneld reassumed his pretence of limp unconsciousness. Liallan caught herself and hastened to do the same, leaning her head against the bars, her eyes open just wide enough to allow a slip of vision through her eyelashes.

After another moment, a Dremora strode into sight, all clad in jagged dark red armour as hard as everything else on this plane, a longsword strapped to the back. Only the helm seemed to be missing and the face became visible as the daedra moved to stand before the two cages.

Liallan opened her eyes just a hair's width wider. She had faced conjurers often enough to know roughly what Dremora looked like, to be able to recognise the tall, muscular stature and the distinct armour, but whenever she faced Dremora they tended to be rather fast and blurry and she was forced to concentrate on moving the hell out of the way rather than gawking at them. She had never actually looked at a Dremora standing still just a few feet from her.

They were an alien race, that much was obvious at first glance. Carefully studying the specimen before her, Liallan concluded that it was a he. Like the rest of Oblivion, every feature was sharp and pronounced, every inch of the rough skin coloured a motley mixture of black, ash grey, and various shades of red and purple. High cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, the hollow just below not gently sloping, as with Nirn races, but rather cascading into the strong jaw. A short and wide-nostriled nose, full lips, a low and heavy forehead - the entire face was as if carved from granite. Most distinctive of all were the eyes - dark red orbs with a web of fiery lines interlacing to form something akin to a pupil - and the horns protruding from the forehead through a mess of tangled red hair. On the whole, it was a face that looked so alien that Liallan couldn't decide for the life of her whether she found it ugly or handsome, as the carved, sharp features didn't fit anywhere near her perceptions on either of those possibilities.

The Dremora now drew closer, stopping at the edge of the chasm, and Liallan had to struggle to keep her breathing even. Then he leered, every point of his sharp teeth showing.

"You are awake, mortal," the Dremora said in Imperial. His voice was deep and guttural, more like a growl than humanoid speech. She briefly wondered where he learned Imperial.

When she didn't stir, the Dremora unsheathed the sword and promptly slid it through the bars. Liallan dodged it with a start, spinning out of the way as much as it was possible and then trying to pin the sword down with her knees, not trusting her feet and hands to touch the sharp blade. The Dremora actually laughed - a low, rumbling sound - as he effortlessly foiled her attempt to get hold of the weapon, pulling the sword back.

Liallan moved away, clinging to the far side of the cage, her feet pulled up. She then proceeded to glare silently at the Dremora.

He was still leering.

"You are foolish to have come here, mortal. Your kind do not stand a chance against Lord Dagon. Soon all your kin will be devoured in the fires of his reign. As for you, I am glad you have woken, mortal. You and your kin will provide some entertainment while I wait for the next Gate to be opened."

_Perverted Dunmer inmates aren't the only ones given to monologues, then. _The thought slipped her mind before the enormity of what he had said dawned on her.

"The next Gate? There'll be more Gates?" she asked, suddenly anxious. The Dremora laughed again.

"Of course. The Kyn have been denied entry to your plane for too long - but no more. The barrier is already weakened. Soon nothing will prevent our Lord from unleashing his fury onto your pathetic Empire."

Absorbing that, Liallan was about to ask another question but found herself concerned with more pressing matters as the Dremora moved over to the wall, pulling a lever. He then turned to look at the prisoners, watching carefully.

There was a rumble from below. Liallan glanced downward, alarmed by the sudden increase in heat. The fire deep below flared much brighter now. Trapped in the pillar of scalding hot air ascending from the fire, Liallan found herself squirming as those patches of her body most exposed to it began to sting, the general discomfort quickly developing into searing pain. She heard Menien Goneld groan in pain, his voice soon changing to a series of guttural cries. Denied the perks of Dunmeri heritage, he was clearly having a much harder time.

Liallan writhed in a mindless attempt to get away from the heat blistering her skin. She sent a steady stream of healing magic into it but wasn't able to keep up with the constant damage. She snarled at the Dremora, who was watching with what she interpreted to be amusement. While she could still finish picking the lock she doubted that it would do her much good under the daedra's gaze.

The daedra in question lazily leaned over to the lever, pushing it further. Feeling the heat increase, Liallan desperately wished she could throw something at him.

Menien Goneld was screaming while Liallan curled up into a ball, her hands shielding her eyes as she bit back a cry of pain. She was steadily healing herself but her head was pounding with the mental exertion and she felt her concentration slipping with the pain.

Blinking at the Dremora Liallan lunged forward, snaking her reddened hands through the hot bars and gripping the lockpick stuck into the mechanism. The Dremora started but didn't try to stop her, giving her an amused grin as he observed her efforts to escape. Liallan dropped the lockpick - it fell downward, into the flames. She could almost feel the skin on her legs and arms peeling off as she grabbed another one and forced it into the lock.

The agony was dazzling. Liallan clawed desperately at the lockpick, the strain of keeping up the healing a steady pressure on her consciousness. Almost when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, that she would incinerate if she spent another moment in that cage, she felt the last tumbler slide free. With the strength of an enraged animal Liallan kicked the door open, hurling herself out of the cage and over the gap below.

Meeting the floor, she stumbled and fell to her knees, scrambling away as the Dremora casually unsheathed his sword. Every inch of her skin hurting like hell, she realized that while she was no longer being roasted over open fire, she was unarmed, unarmoured and fully at the whim of a demon wielding a sword.

As the daedra edged closer, toying with the deadly weapon, Liallan took a few tentative steps backward and out of its reach. She thought about somehow dodging out of the way and then pushing the Dremora into the fire, but her chances weren't looking good and what she normally considered her last resort seemed to be failing her at the moment.

The Dremora leapt forward, the sword carving a deadly arc through the air. Shocking her muscles back into obedience, Liallan ducked beneath the blow, aiming to lung past him, but suddenly felt an iron-hard grip on her wrist jerk her backward, hurling her into a wall with breathtaking strength. Colliding with the hard stone, Liallan only managed to grunt in pain as the breath was knocked out of her. Her head spun and she felt herself slide down on unsteady feet as she blinked away the little dancing stars in her vision.

The next thing she knew, an armoured hand seized her by the throat, pulling her up to stare into an angled, sharp-edged face. Up close, she could see that the face was lined with scars, blade marks as well as traces of broken bones. The web-like pupils actually seemed to glow. Clawing desperately at the gauntlets around her neck, Liallan wondered if perchance a Dremora would bleed fire.

"Not bad, for a mortal," the Dremora growled, his tightening grip steadily cutting off Liallan's supply of heavy Oblivion air, "It is always interesting how much your kind can accomplish when driven to the edge."

Her struggles growing more intense with the diminishing air, Liallan tried to kick the daedra, but it was just as futile as trying to kick a mountain, and in every way as unpleasant.

In a sudden fit of inspiration, she yanked the last lockpick from where she had hidden it in the folds of her shirt and thrust it deep into the Dremora's eye. The hiss of pain that followed was rewarding; the sensation of being flung across the room wasn't. Liallan collided with the floor, rolled with the momentum, the rough surface raking her already ruined skin, and finally came to a stop, coughing violently in an attempt to get her breath back.

She looked up just in time to see the Dremora retrieve his sword - to her disappointment, the substance seeping from his eye looked like normal blood. To her further confusion, the Dremora was laughing again, appearing genuinely amused. Liallan tried to get to her feet, stumbling away while trying to come up with a strategy to keep herself alive for another moment. His sword at the ready, the Dremora seemed ready to pounce.

Before he could take another step, a greyish figure materialised in front of Liallan, a semi-transparent blade rushing at the Dremora. He parried and riposted and was forced to parry again. Before he could take another swing, the figure danced backwards, out of his reach. The figure raised its free hand and a ball of frost magic sped at the daedra, hitting him in the chest. With a cry of pain he was knocked off-balance, staggering at the damage. Without a moment's hesitation, the figure closed in, impaling the Dremora on the blade and then kicking him off, down into the blazing fire. Liallan heard a cry of genuine pain as the Dremora was supposedly incinerated.

She limped over to the lever, pulling it completely to the other side. A few moment's later, the fire down below flickered and died. She glanced at Menien Goneld. She wasn't sure when he'd stopped screaming, but he was now in extraordinarily bad shape.

"I do have to wonder how you get into these situations," came a faint, echoing voice, the speech a splendid example of perfect Dunmer pronunciation. "A plane of _Oblivion,_ of all places? You can't imagine how difficult it was to locate you here."

Liallan shrugged, wincing at the pain and healing herself. As most of the burns and bruises faded away, she felt an immense relief, along with a soothing coolness on her shoulder. Glancing over she saw a ghostly hand touching her gently, the pleasant blue of the far more powerful healing spell fading away. Satisfied that her protege was safe, the ghost stepped away, her entire form rippling slightly. The Dunmer's thin, clouded face was frowning sceptically at the fiery surroundings. The hair, tied into dozens of thin braids, was as messy and disheveled as usual - a family trait, Liallan had always suspected. Clad in full-body chitin armour, with an array of trinkets on her neck, wrists and fingers, Theriandris looked just like she had looked the last time, except...

"A sword?" Liallan asked, lifting an eyebrow at the unfamiliar weapon and the lack of the spear she had seen so often before.

"I hadn't used it much, but the frost damage enchantment is extremely handy, especially against daedra," the ghost explained nonchalantly. "I'm surprised to find you here. What have you been getting into?"

"Different things," Liallan cringed. "I got to witness the death of an Emperor and be his errand-girl. And now an Oblivion Gate has opened outside a city, razed it to the ground, and I have to close it."

"An Oblivion Gate? Things used to be so much calmer in my time," Theriandris sighed with a shake of her head, watching as Liallan walked over to a handle in the wall. Turning it, she was pleased to see Menien's cage swing away from the opening and onto the floor. "A little help?" she asked, gesturing at the lock. The ghost pushed her out of the way, and with a precise blow of the ghostly blade, shattered the lock. Liallan couldn't possibly see a normal weapon doing that to the daedric steel...

Yanking open the door, Liallan reached inside and carefully pulled at the limp figure. She lay the man on the floor, noting that he seemed to be still breathing.

"Heal him," she said to Theriandris after one look at Menien's injuries. The ghost complied, healing magic flowing into him as she touched him. "You really need to work on your healing skills," she muttered to Liallan.

Before she could answer, Menien stirred, moaning as he tried to sit up. Liallan stopped him.

"Can you walk?" she asked of him.

"I doubt I have a choice," he answered. "Who's this?" he nodded at the ghost.

"My ancestral guardian. She killed the Dremora. Also, without her help you'd probably still be in that cage."

"That's appreciated. Couldn't you have summoned her sooner?"

"That's the problem. I can't actually summon her, not deliberately. She just tends to appear when I'm in deeply serious trouble."

"Good for you," the man nodded, hesitating for a moment. "Listen, we need to get out of here. Since you've already sprung me from the cage, I might as well tell you what I know. I overheard two Dremora talking. Apparently we need to get to the Sigillum Sanguis - it's a chamber at the top of the highest tower, the Sigil Keep as they call it."

"You can understand Daedric? Now where would you gain a skill like that?" Liallan demanded, suddenly suspicious.

"I take great interest in the school of Conjuration," Menien replied with a faint sigh. "I learned to prolong the duration of my summoning spells enough that I could summon Dremora and spend hours learning the language from them."

"Bet they loved it," Liallan chuckled. "So we get to the Sigil Keep and what then?"

"The Gate between Nirn and Oblivion is powered by an artifact called the Sigil Stone. Removing it will cause the Gate to collapse."

"What about us? Do we stay trapped in Oblivion?" Liallan struggled to keep the panic out of her voice, but in truth that idea wasn't at all pleasant to consider. Once again, she considered backing out of this - while the Gate was open there was still at least some possibility of that.

"I don't know. We can't know unless we try, and in any case, the Gate needs to be closed."

Liallan was about to answer but was interrupted by Theriandris,

"My knowledge of Oblivion is limited but closing the Gate will not be your destruction."

"Oh? And how do you know that?"

"I'd be able to sense it if you were about to join me, I should think," the ghost answered cryptically. As Liallan pondered that revelation, Theriandris spoke again, "My time is up. My presence here is even harder to maintain than on Nirn. Take care." With that, the ghost wavered and disappeared, as if breathed away from existence.

Liallan looked at Menien Goneld and sighed.

"Let's get going."

As they descended warily down the walkway, she wondered how on Nirn she would make it through a tower filled with demons accompanied by a magician who could just barely walk without support.

_Exactly the way I had so far made it through everything else, perchance?_

Following the walkway they came to another platform. The walkway led further down but there was also a stone door engraved with a daedric symbol. A large container of daedric design was propped up against a wall.

Cursing, Liallan was about to start looking for another lockpick but was stopped by Menien.

"Allow me," he offered, briefly touching the lock. There was a hum, a few sparks and then it clicked open. Reaching inside Liallan was overjoyed to discover her possessions, as well as a suit of chainmail armour and unfamiliar clutter she presumed belonged to Menien. The fact that he hadn't run into Oblivion wearing only a linen robe raised her opinion of him by a notch.

As they both changed hastily into their attire, every now and then pausing to make sure no daedra interrupted, Liallan asked, glancing at the lock.

"So you've been in that cage for how long?"

"The Dremora are no fools. The cage as well as the lock were crafted to absorb any magical energy sent at them," Menien explained, strapping a shortsword to his belt.

"Ah. Tell me, how good are you in a fight?" Liallan asked while moving to inspect the strange stone door.

"I can do well enough for myself - I did volunteer to go into an Oblivion Gate, after all. I will not be a burden."

Liallan nodded absentmindedly. Gripping at something that vaguely resembled a pair of handles, she was pleasantly surprised that she could just slide both halves of the door apart. She edged out. The sight that greeted her made her heart sink. The door opened to one of the numerous bridges she had seen; it led straight to what she assumed to be the Sigil Keep. Liallan sank to her knees and knelt cautiously over the edge, discovering that the bridge was hung directly above a lake of lava. Shaking her head at their predicament, Liallan glanced at the conjurer, who was now standing behind her as he surveyed the view with a smile of grim amusement on his face.

"What about stealth? How good are you at avoiding fights?" Liallan asked, looking at him expectantly. The man hesitated.

"I can cast a basic chameleon spell. Will that be enough?"

Liallan sighed. The situation was both ridiculous and frustrating - it was either fight and be killed, or try to sneak through the tower with an amateur in tow and _then_ fight and be killed. Admittedly, she could start a fight somewhere and leave Menien as a distraction while she made for the Sigil Stone... but no. Liallan knew from past experience how atrocious that would make her feel and she wasn't about to invite another guilt trip with her conscience.

"It better be," she finally said. She pulled on her hood and gathered her cloak around her. The fabric held just a hint of a chameleon enchantment and was now rippling with the crimson streaks of the sky above and the lava below. It had tipped the balance in countless situations before and Liallan counted on it heavily now.

Following her example, Menien mouthed a few words and his figure turned into a ripple of Oblivion's reds and blacks, a mocking resemblance of the fiery wastes around.

"Alright," Liallan said, unsheathing her sword and covering it with her cloak to hide the gleam. "You stay behind me and don't do anything rash. We're not in a hurry and we're going to take our time. If you have an opening, go for it, but otherwise don't try anything heroic. If you get in trouble I'll probably help you, but I'll be mad as hell afterwards. Any questions?"

"Let's go," Menien nodded.

Keeping to the centre of the precarious bridge, they cautiously crossed towards the looming shadow at the other end.

Glancing sideways at the barren, forbidding landscape, Liallan briefly wondered if the Dremora had been right and more of these Gates would be opening on Nirn. After worrying for a moment, she pushed the thought aside in favour of more pressing matters.


	13. Transcendence

"Ack!" Liallan exclaimed as her sword was yanked from her grasp and clattered to the floor beside the daedroth. The creature growled and pounced. She launched herself sideways, dodging the swiping claws. She made for the sword but the daedroth recoiled and moved to stand nearly on top of it.

"Lee, get down!" came a voice from behind. She dropped flat and could just feel the tingle at the tips of her ears as a bolt of electricity sped past, engulfing her opponent. The beast yowled, stumbling backwards a few steps. Lunging forward from her crouch, Liallan seized her sword and brought it at the monster's exposed neck in a powerful swing. She sprang lightly out of the way as the daedroth howled and slowly toppled forward, the blood spraying out not unlike the numerous blood fountains they had encountered. Daedric blood felt scalding hot to the touch and Liallan knew it was now all over her, mixing with the dirt, ash and bits of goo left from that spider daedra Menien had killed with a fireball.

Menien Goneld was a short distance away from her, tossing spells at the Dremora mage and simultaneously trying to deal with the latter's summoned clannfear and scamps. Liallan dropped her sword, unslung her bow in a split second, reached for an arrow, sighted and released. The Dremora mage staggered, looked at her in surprise and crumpled to the ground. The scamp nibbling at Menien's boot faded away like a bad dream.

She resheathed her sword. The scabbard at her other side was empty - the silver blade had been claimed by the lake of lava along with the Dremora it had been embedded in. She reflected how her off-hand swords never seemed to last and resolved to find a new one as soon as possible.

Breathing deeply, Liallan leaned against a pillar, shaking her head to clear the heaviness. Much to her embarrassment, she had nearly fallen over upon ascending up the walkway stretched along the inner side of the tower. It was then she noticed how remarkably exhausted she was. While the lack of sleep had probably taken its toll, Liallan was inclined to agree with Menien's guess that it was the lack of air that had finally caught up with her. The feeling she had was incredibly close to what she felt like in the mountains, groggy and heavy-headed until she grew accustomed to it a few days later.

Liallan glanced around while Menien searched the Dremora's corpse for valuables. The Sigillum Sanguis was now devoid of daedric life, although it still looked by no means lifeless. The whole tower had a revoltingly organic feel to it, a nest of blood, stone and steel woven around the pillar of fire descending downwards from the Sigil Stone. The chamber crowning the tower was the pinnacle of it, constructed of something that looked like red, leathery skin stretched taut over spiky frames, with bone-like spindles forming the stairway.

She carefully avoided looking at the bags of meat hanging in metal frames. One time of trying to examine them was more than enough. It looked as if a body had been turned inside out and was somehow still alive, pulsing like a beating heart. While Liallan had been busy vomiting into a blood-splattered corner, Menien had helpfully informed her that the bag of meat was referred to as 'the Punished' and that, just like the pods of slimy, whitened flesh they had encountered earlier, it could in theory contain valuable items if one had the nerves to look. After doubling over at the idea, Liallan had wiped her mouth, spitting and shuddering, and snapped at Menien that he was more than welcome to give it a try.

Between the lack of air and the lingering sense of nausea, Liallan was feeling terrible and was glad that they were almost at their goal.

The respite was short-lived. Glancing down she saw that more daedra had been attracted by the sounds of struggle and were now entering the chamber. She edged back towards the wall where they couldn't see her.

"Let's go, Lee," Menien said in a low voice. Liallan suppressed a snort at the name. While she had needed to give the conjurer something to call her by and wasn't comfortable with revealing her name just yet, 'Lee' was beginning to sound ridiculously familiar to her ears.

With Menien behind her, she moved up the walkway of stretched skin, trying to ignore how it sank beneath her feet. The Sigil Stone - an obsidian black orb veiled by burning energies - was suspended in the centre of a ring-like dais hanging on thick chains. Humming with untold power, the Stone was both the crown and the source of the pillar of flame diving downwards through the tower. Above it was a circular opening that revealed a patch of Oblivion's red sky.

Liallan hesitantly approached it. The vibration was making her skin crawl. She slowly reached for the Stone, observing with relief that the energy directly around it wasn't hot enough to cause her any damage. She grasped it with both hands, steeled herself and pulled it away, jerking it out of its resting place.

For a split second, it was as if the entire plane held its breath.

The next, chaos ensued. The pillar of fire expanded in a haphazard fashion, shooting up into the sky. A violent rumble shook the entire tower and she found herself flying to the floor, nearly colliding with her companion. The chains that previously held the Stone shattered and dissipated; the entire tower was being torn apart by the rampant energies. Her heart beating wildly in panic, Liallan desperately clutched the stone, keeping away from the walls as they were streaked by flames.

Bolts of fire were shooting wildly through the room; it was when Menien cried out in pain while Liallan found herself unharmed that she realised what had to be done.

"Menien! Hold on to the Stone!" she yelled to the Imperial, scrambling towards him while trying to keep her balance as a tremor rocked through the tower. The Imperial was on his side, his leg seemed to be pinned underneath something, and there was blood...

Suddenly the whole chamber gave way, the rumble of stones being cracked apart deafening to the ears. Liallan stumbled, falling beside of the conjurer. Behind her, she caught a glimpse of lava spraying up through the tears in the chamber.

Menien moaned, the sound nearly indistinguishable in the cacaphony of destruction that surrounded them. His eyes flickered toward her, glinting with the last shreds of consciousness.

"Grab it!" Liallan shouted into his ear, pushing the Stone into his hands.

Menien gasped in pain. There was a moment when his muscles twitched, failing to comply while chaos roared around them. Then, in one small, nearly hesitant movement, his hands slid to spread over the surface of the vibrating black orb and a red flash ran down his body as the link was established...

For a fleeting moment, brief and intense like flashfire, the mantle of energies closed around them.

And then everything was speeding away.

xxx

In the general confusion of senses and directions, left, right, up and down, Liallan was vaguely aware of flying through the air and landing in a heap onto hard ground. She looked up and for a heart-splitting moment she thought she was still in Oblivion, but logic quickly cleared that illusion. Oblivion didn't have heavy grey rain clouds eating away at all the red, or bluish mountains in the distance; besides, the scene was sharply familiar.

Menien was sprawled on the ground beside her, breathing heavily. The Sigil Stone was humming and vibrating a few inches away. Glancing at the Gate, she could see that the fires had been extinguished and most of the stony frame had crumbled to dust.

The Kvatch soldiers cheered loudly as they emerged from behind the barricade and Liallan breathed out a sigh of relief. She had no idea how long she had been gone - a day or even longer didn't feel that unlikely - but thankfully the guards were still there... Still there to retake the city, which would hopefully allow Liallan to find the would-be emperor priest and get it all over with. If he was dead, she'd probably take it out on the Chapel and tear the place apart...

Further view of the scenery was abruptly blotted out by a mess of tangled black fur and hot breath on her face. Grey seemed about to lick her, but after throwing her one quick look, the wolf snorted in disdain, gave her a symbolic brush on the nose and backed away. Liallan laughed somewhat hysterically, ruffling the wolf's fur. She then turned her attention to the Kvatch soldiers surrounding her.

After securing the Stone, Liallan was quickly ushered back to the barricade while two of the soldiers carried Menien. She came face to face with Captain Savlian again. The Imperial looked slightly more bloody and grimy than when she had last seen him, but appeared to be alright.

"You've done it," he said to Liallan in a tone of awed disbelief, gripping her shoulder almost as if trying to convince her, "You've actually done it, you sorry slip of a Dunmer!" Liallan wanted to protest at that, but seeing as she was currently covered in ash, dirt, burns, blood and goo and probably looked completely pitiful, she couldn't blame him.

"I thought you were planning to leave the city and get the survivors away from it?" she asked the Captain.

Savlian Matius nodded grimly,

"I was, but in the end it simply didn't feel like the right thing to do. It's a good thing we waited, perhaps we now have a chance. I didn't believe you could do it, but you must be as good as you are crazy, Dunmer." He gave her a broad, tired smile and an appreciative pat on the shoulder.

"Good soldiers of Kvatch!" he called to the other men, "Our hope is restored! Let us take back our city and send these bastards back to where they belong!"

The men cheered while the Dunmer located Menien Goneld where another soldier had just finished emptying several potions down his throat. She was glad to see he was conscious again, and watching the proceedings with a weak smile. Seeing Liallan he sat up, pushing away the next potion offered to him and sending his own healing spell into his body.

"Thank you," he said to Liallan. "You may have freed me from that cage because you needed a companion to serve as a meatshield, but there hadn't been any reason to watch out for me after the Stone had been removed. You saved my life and I won't forget that. I can only hope that someday I will be able to return the favour."

Liallan hesitated, not knowing what to say. Fate didn't place her in situations like this very often; as a matter of fact she made a point to avoid having to watch out for anyone besides herself. She knew she'd have felt very guilty if Menien hadn't survived - she always did.

"Here, take this," she finally said, handing him the Stone. He pushed it back.

"No. I wouldn't have made it out without you, you have every right to keep it and-"

"..and let it rot on a shelf until I either lose it or break it. You're the conjurer here, keep it. It wouldn't be of any use to me, whatever it does."

"I... Very well," he said, reluctantly accepting the daedric artifact.

As the soldiers prepared for a charge into the ruined city, Savlian waved her over again and inquired about the other men he had sent. According to him, the guard named Ilend - he had gestured at a gloomy Imperial with shoulder-length dark hair - had been incapacitated but managed to make it back to the Gate. His group had been ambushed and at least two were killed with the rest taken prisoner. Liallan had brought Menien back but that still left two soldiers unaccounted for.

With a sinking feeling in her heart Liallan realised that they could have - should have, perhaps - looked in the other towers for more survivors. The rational part of her told her the risk of getting caught had been too great, but the rest of her struggled not to hate the Captain for making her feel guilty like that. Keeping her tone neutral, she told him about the dead soldier she had found not far from the tower and how they hadn't been in a position for a rescue mission for the others.

"Very well," Savlian said, looking morose. "They were good men, but.. so were the rest of the people who had been killed here tonight... Or whenever the attack had happened. You did well, much better than anyone could've expected of you. Since you have a fair bit of experience, I would like you to help us retake the city. It would do good for the morale, as well."

Liallan agreed and waited while Savlian briefly addressed the soldiers, shouting words of encouragement at the remains of the Kvatch City Guard. She then noticed Menien was standing among them, fingering his shortsword apprehensively.

"You're with us?" she asked in surprise.

"I'm healed enough," he answered with a nod. "Besides, it's either this or stay behind, so..."

"...Let's do this! Are you with me?" Savlian Matius finally demanded, raising a gauntleted fist into the air. Cheers greeted him. "Charge!"

One by one, swords were slid out of the scabbards and the men rushed towards the crumbled city gates and the city that lay beyond.

_I've done it,_ Liallan realised, her thoughts wandering briefly as she trampled over the remains of the Oblivion Gate, Grey a step behind her. _And I'm getting myself deeper into this.__Let's hope the bloody priest is still alive._


	14. A Hero Can Save Us

Startled by the sudden change in the air, Martin sat up, tense and apprehensive. He scanned the surroundings for any sign of danger but couldn't detect anything different. The remaining survivors were sitting or lying in their spots in brooding silence, huddled together for warmth and comfort, occasionally making half-hearted exchanges in shy whispers. A few had been pacing but whatever excess of energy they possessed had long been expended. Of the handful of guards staying at the Chapel, a few were attempting to rest while the others were poised at the wooden doors.

It felt like they had been there forever and Martin had long abandoned any real measure of hope. They had considered making a run out of the city but the daedra outside were many, and in any case, the idea of heading straight towards the Gate stationed outside the city was too risky to even attempt. Their only chance was a rescue of some sort, yet after countless hours, no help had come.

And now, suddenly something was different.

As Martin tried to hone his magical senses back into obedience to detect the nature of the change, something light and barely noticeable fell on his face. He brought his hand up and brushed against the spot. Examining his fingers he was surprised at the patch of moisture spread over his fingertips.

Another drop fell, landing straight into his palm.

He looked up.

"The sky! Everyone look at the sky!" someone gasped. Martin stared upwards in disbelief. Through the opening in the roof created when the Chapel tower had been torn off during the attack, the sky was showering droplets of water onto them, but that wasn't the only remarkable development. Even as he watched, the crimson, lightning-streaked clouds faded away, taking the red light with them. In a few minutes what was visible of the sky had become bleak, wet, and blessedly grey.

As the hum of excited murmurs and conversations arose all over the Chapel, Martin stood still, savouring the cool wetness and not quite willing to embrace hope again, for fear that it would be a false one. Finally, he sighed, accepting that something had finally changed for the better and that perhaps they had a chance after all, and walked over to where Tierra, the guard who had assumed command of the survivors, was engaged in a quiet discussion with a mage and several other guards.

"...could've been caused by any number of things, but I'd say the Gate has been finally shut down..."

"_Been_ shut down? You're saying a mortal could do it? Maybe the Captain's men-"

"We should stay here, maybe we'll finally be rescued..."

"What if the Gate closed by itself? Some of the daedra might be weakened by the rain, we should seize our chance now and-"

"It doesn't change anything. Even if the Gate is shut, we don't have the numbers or the strength to defeat the daedra-"

"We don't need to defeat them, only distract them long enough for the civilians to get out of the city."

"And then what? Skingrad and Anvil are both miles away. How do you imagine the injured running all the way with daedra blowing at their heels?"

Over the course of the next few minutes, Martin listened as a plan was refined that would involve those capable of fighting distracting the daedra while the rest filed out through the secret tunnel leading to the guardhouse. He sighed. While he understood their itch for action, this was unnecessary.

"Ma'am?" he said softly to Tierra. The Redguard turned to look at him.

"Brother Martin," she said, acknowledging his presence with a firm nod.

"With all due respect, such a plan would stake everything for the sake of a salvation that may very well be close at hand. I do not see the problem with waiting a while longer. If it is truly the Watch that has closed the Oblivion Gate, as it seems possible, all we need to do is sit here and wait to be rescued, with no risk to the civilians."

Tierra pondered this, staring wistfully at the occupants of the Chapel.  
"You're right, priest." She gave him a nudge in the direction of the others. "Even so, do me a favour and tell everyone to pick up whatever they have and get ready to move."

Martin cringed at that; he really didn't feel up for another speech at the moment. He hadn't been able to shake the feeling of apprehension ever since he had talked to Rellia and was rather reluctant to tempt fate again.

"Perhaps it's better that you do it," he said to Tierra, "You've been in charge of the defense the entire time we've been locked up and-"

"...and you're the man who personally persuaded the more panicky ones to stay in the Chapel rather than get killed," Tierra said with a tight, pained smile. "Not to mention showing great courage during all the chaos itself. I recall you risked getting cut off by daedra just so you could rescue a family trapped in their cellar. If there's anyone the people will trust, it's you."

Shooting him another weary smile, she turned away to talk to another guard. Martin hesitated, then turned to the populace.

"Fellow citizens!" he innerly squirmed at how similar it sounded to his usual speeches during service. Heads turned towards him; nobody seemed to mind. "It is fair to assume the Oblivion Gate outside the city has been closed. Help may be on the way. For that reason, everyone should gather their possessions and be ready to leave the Chapel. Those with serious injuries currently resting in the Chapel quarters will need to be moved to stretchers and carried... That is all, thank you."

Martin turned away, his insides twisting as if he were an acolyte before his great final probation. He couldn't shake the feeling of simply how wrong it was to command these people...

_And if I'm mistaken? If they get their hopes up, collect their things and get ready to be rescued, and then no help comes?_

Thinking ahead, he realised he had no idea what would happen if help didn't come. It all felt too fogged and uncertain... If the daedra managed to break through the door, as they had been attempting for as long as they had been trapped inside the Chapel, he didn't know if anything would truly stop them from treading on holy ground. If not, would Martin and the others be forced to barricade themselves in the quarters? They were far too small to hold such a number of people - although Martin desperately wished more had survived - and if not, the undercroft? It was too cold...

Minutes passed, the people fussing around with sacks, bedrolls, stretchers and children. Martin had the distinct impression that they were making it far more difficult than necessary... As he gathered his own belongings, he reflected that it did indeed feel good to actually be doing something. Just like the others, he found himself prolonging the preparations, viewing and reviewing his inventory for something he had missed or anything he wouldn't need. Like the others, he found himself dreading the moment the strained inactivity of waiting would again resume, only this time everyone would be poised to leave, growing more nervous with every minute that passed without a miracle...

Outside of the Chapel, somebody was yelling.

Martin froze, listening carefully. In a few moments, he heard it again, closer and louder this time. Sounds of battle were drifting in through the hole in the arched ceiling; a daedroth bellowed and the clanging of swords was clearly audible.

_"For Kvatch!"_ he suddenly heard, clear as day, and the cheer of the soldiers outside was echoed by their comrades in the Chapel.

Lingering moments passed before the sounds of struggle finally faded away. Then someone was hammering at the door on the other side.

"Captain Matius here, open up!" came a deep, familiar voice. Tierra and the guards responded, struggling with the locks and the heavy crates they had converted into a makeshift barricade. Finally the doors swung open and the bloody, grimy figure of Savlian Matius stepped through, a triumphant grin on his face and more soldiers trailing after him. Martin heaved a sigh of relief, feeling as though a mountain had been lifted off his shoulders. While his heart was heavy with the grief of the countless lives lost in the attack, it comforted him to know that, at the very least, the survivors were now safe.

"Captain Matius!" Tierra's voice nearly seemed to break as she saluted him, a strained yet sincere smile pulling at her features.

"Tierra..." the Captain started, but hesitated, his grin falling. "So few...?" he breathed, staring at the crowd of civilians.

"Yes..." she said much more softly, her solemn expression returning. "Twenty-eight survivors, eleven incapacitated, nearly everyone is somehow injured. Captain, how many..."

"...made it outside? A little over a dozen," he replied bitterly. "There will be time to grieve later," he added upon seeing Tierra's crestfallen expression, giving her a firm squeeze on the shoulder, "For now, me must take care of those who survived."

Directed by a few of the soldiers, the civilians were filing out of the Chapel, and as Martin contemplated whether or not to join them, someone he'd never seen before left the group of the Kvatch guards and pulled him aside, away from the flow of people.

"You are Brother Martin?"

"I am," he replied, examining the stranger as a moment of hesitation followed. A woman in light armour - little else was obvious at first glance. Further assessment was hindered by the fact that she looked as if she had been tossed into a meat-grinder and later an oven together with several other creatures and had somehow miraculously survived. There was ash, dirt, blood and pieces of gore smeared by the rain all over her skin, her dark armour and the messy bundle of hair at the top of her head. Noticing the pointed ears, the glinting red eyes and the vaguely greyish skin underneath all that grime, he silently declared her a Dunmer.

The expression of being deeply peeved by something never left her face. She nodded faintly, seeming to agree with some private thought of hers and Martin realised she'd been studying him in turn.

"Indeed you are," she said, almost to herself. "You can't stay here," she added much more sternly. "You'll have to come with me, I've been sent to get you."

"What are you talking about?" Martin said in a low voice as he felt paranoia creep up on him. A disturbing vision of Kvatch's obliteration by daedra he'd experienced had come true, a Daedra worshipper had talked to him only to attack him at a later point, and suddenly, at a time like this, someone had been sent to get him?

"Is there any place we can talk? In private?" the Dunmer sounded anxious now as she peered about for a likely spot. Before Martin could come up with a reply, Savlian and Tierra had walked up to them, cutting off the exchange.

"The castle is still swarming with daedra," the Captain announced, "We need to launch a quick, determined attack, otherwise they might stay holed up in there forever. It's unclear whether the Count is still alive, but it's our duty to try and save him. Lee, will you help lead the men?"

For some reason, the Dunmer seemed to cringe at that. She then shook her head.

"No, I can't, there's something else I need to be doing."

"Something more important than this?" The Imperial sounded faintly distressed. "Your input would be invaluable..."

"I'm sorry, Captain. I wish you the best of luck, but I can't stay," she sounded a bit apologetic now. Martin vaguely wondered who this woman was to have the Captain of the Kvatch Guard practically begging her to join him. Granted, the numbers of the Guard were dwindling and any extra sword could make all the difference, which made him consider...

"I'll come with you, Captain, if you'll permit it. From what I've seen your men could use a priest and a spellcaster," he stated solemnly.

Before Savlian could react, the Dunmer wheeled around to face him, her crimson eyes widened.

"There is absolutely no way you are doing that! You'll be putting yourself into danger-"

"I take it you two know each other?" Tierra inquired with a polite chuckle, shooting both Martin and the Dunmer a reappraising glance.

"We just met," Martin interjected hastily, "She's-"

"...a messenger of sorts," the Dunmer said, glowering at the priest. "I've been sent to fetch him and I'm not about to let him get himself killed when a daedroth happens to step on him!" she shot angrily at no one in particular.

"Is this why you were so desperate to get into the city, then?" the Captain inquired, his tone serious. "When you ran in to close that Oblivion Gate, you were just acting on the off chance that Brother Martin was still alive?"

"Yes, that about sums it up," she responded dryly.

"You closed the Oblivion Gate?" Martin asked, bewildered.

"Single-handedly," Captain Matius noted before she could reply. "Unless you count the magician she's rescued. She's also helped direct the counter-attack on the city. She's certainly jumped out of her skin to save someone she hadn't even met by then," he added, gazing thoughtfully at the Dunmer. "Still, we need all the help we can get, and if Brother Martin - wisely - decides to provide that help, neither you nor me are in the power to stop him. If you're so determined to keep him alive, the least you can do is come along and try to keep him out of harm's way," he concluded with a chuckle.

The woman scowled at him. Those ruby red eyes nearly seemed to flicker for a moment. It probably hadn't been her day, either, if her appearance was any indication.

Martin reconsidered his assessment of her - to think that the scrawny dark elf was the key figure behind their miraculous rescue, while the whole time he had attributed the feat to some anonymous score of the Kvatch Guard... And more, the thought that if the Dunmer hadn't been sent to fetch him, the Gate may never have been closed at all, the civilians never rescued... He didn't know where that put him.

The next thing he knew, Savlian was ordering his men around, gathering them before the door that led to the part of the city cut off from the entrance by the collapsed chapel tower. As Martin constructed a magical shield around himself that hopefully compensated for the lack of armour, the door was swung open and the soldiers charged out. Martin followed, briefly noticing that the Dunmer was a pace behind him and eyeing his back with a disdainful expression, the bloodstained katana-like blade in her hand giving her a positively murderous look. A black wolf was padding beside her, ears pricked in alertness.

Grief overwhelmed him at the sight of what remained of their glorious city. With the hellish red light gone, Kvatch was now a spectacle of sorrow. Many of the buildings had been reduced to piles of rubble; others were still partially intact, but charred black by the fire. Of all the beautiful gardens and trees, shining with all the colours of spring and so deeply comforting in the heart of the city, only ashes remained. Once more, this filled him with immeasurable bitterness at the idea of such wanton destruction.

Taking it out on the daedra, Martin sent spell after spell at the monsters now mixed with the ranks of the soldiers. Emboldened by the closing of the Gate, the city's defenders fought hard to reclaim their homes. The scamps were cut down like wheat, the clannfear riddled with what arrows still remained and the fire atronachs, already weakened by the rain, only required several well-placed blows and frost spells to be defeated. Yet the remaining enemies, the monstrous daedroths, the powerful Xivilai and the Dremora encased in nearly impenetrable armour, were hardy and ferocious in battle. Made desperate by the destruction of the Oblivion Gate, their only way home permanently cut off, those daedra blessed with intelligence were loath to leave Nirn without taking many more mortal lives in the process. This made the sheer number and aggression of the daedric ranks close to overwhelming for the battered and exhausted mortals. Only their courage and the triumph of having rescued the refugees at the chapel allowed them to retain their fighting spirit, remaining in a position of offense.

As they advanced through the city, the Dunmer Lee was like a shadow at Martin's back, firing off arrows in quick succession and rapidly switching to her sword if the monsters drew too close. He briefly wondered what made him so important and exactly why someone was so intent on keeping him alive, and who that person was.

As the last of the daedra in their way were either killed or cast into retreat, they came within sight of Castle Kvatch, its stone walls and looming guard towers a reassuring presence among all the carnage. Glancing wistfully at the tattered banners hanging limply from the walls, the black and white wolf standards torn and burnt by the staggering fury of Oblivion, Martin was reminded just how deceiving the seeming safety of those walls could be.

"Damn it! They've lowered the portcullis!" came Captain Matius's voice. Peering past the miraculously undamaged stone statue stationed in the plaza before the castle, Martin realised he was right. The gate's thick iron grating was down, the tipped points embedded securely in the ashen ground. In the courtyard beyond, he could make out the forms of daedra.

Within a few moments, a warning was cried. As a sparse shower of Dremora arrows came pouring down at them, Martin cast another, more powerful shield spell, coating himself and those in his vicinity with a protective barrier while the guards raised their own shields.

They pulled back, out of range of the Dremora archers in the courtyard.

"Damn it," the Captain said again, "with the gate lowered we've no hope of entering the castle. We'll need to..." he paused thoughtfully, chewing fiercely at his lower lip in anxiety.

"Berich!" he called to one of the soldiers. A tan-skinned Imperial with dark, short-cropped hair stepped forward. "You still have the key to the guardhouse?" The Imperial confirmed that. "Good. Get through the secret tunnel that leads to the courtyard. The passage beneath the chapel exits close to the guardhouse and should spare you from fighting your way through the remaining daedra. Tierra, take three other men and go with him. Between the five of you, you should be able to keep the gate raised until you get past the walls."

"Sir!" Tierra saluted and departed, the four other soldiers following her.

Moments dragged by. Martin and what few other magicians were with them helped heal away some of the injuries. The soldiers held fast, within sight but out of firing range of the castle, killing any stray daedra that wandered too close.

And then suddenly, there was the sound of fighting coming from the gate as the portcullis was raised. Following the Captain's command, they rushed at the castle, shields raised against any arrows fired from the other side. Reaching the side of Tierra and her comrades, two of them already injured, they charged into the fray.

Time passed in a haphazard fashion - one pounding heartbeat at a time, each viable to be the last. Martin kept tossing frost and lightning spells at the enraged daedra while backing away from their own attacks. There was nothing glorious about the fight - it was no confrontation between two armies in shining armour, merely a bloody, chaotic grapple, where death ran rampart through the ranks. The Dremora were not ones to depart quietly to the other side of existence; if anything, the desperation of being forever trapped on Nirn, with no hope of reincarnation, only increased the fury of their bloodlust tenfold and strengthened the blows unleashed at the mortal soldiers. When the courtyard was finally cleared, the last of the daedra cut down, the ranks of the mortals were left battered and exhausted, leaning heavily on their weapons as even wearier healers tended to their wounds. No horns resounded to celebrate the outcome of this bloody skirmish. As vital and significant as it was to the reclamation of the castle, it was merely another step in the long path ahead still to be carved by swords and magic.

His mind and body numb from the messages of various kinds of pain and exhaustion popping up and overlapping in his consciousness, Martin cast a cure poison spell, rousing a soldier who had been struck down by a poisoned Dremora arrow. He looked bitterly at the stone towers and tattered banners overhead. He had a dreadful feeling the long path ahead wouldn't end with Kvatch.

xxx

"Watch it!" the Dunmer hissed, shoving Martin out of the way. The storm atronach's gigantic fist smashed into the wall where his head had been half a moment ago. As Martin prepared the most powerful fire spell he could still conjure, Lee lashed forth, dancing in circles around the elemental and hacking away at his rocky, lightning-streaked sides. While she and the wolf kept the creature distracted, Martin gathered the ball of magical flames into his palms, pushing all of his remaining magicka into the spell as he hurled it at the daedra - storm atronachs were by far the most powerful elementals found in Oblivion and they stood little chance of defeating it otherwise.

The atronach shuddered as the fire engulfed it, nearly smashing it to bits as many of the energies holding the rocks together dissipated into nothingness. Overcome by sudden light-headedness, Martin was only partially aware of Lee rushing forward to finish it off as he leaned heavily against the wall.

"Are you hurt?" Martin blinked away the black edges creeping in on his vision and looked at the Dunmer. He was fleetingly amused by the observation that, after the bloody and intense battle to reclaim Kvatch, the soldiers still didn't look anywhere as bad as the Dunmer did, who was now covered in layers upon layers of different kinds of grime.

"Just tired. I'll be alright," Martin said, shaking his head as he pushed himself away from the wall. Lee nodded in understanding, turning her attention back to the hallway. Martin knelt at Tierra's side, frowning as he examined her injuries. While the Redguard was still alive despite having been smashed into the wall by the atronach, she wouldn't be moving anytime soon. "Her leg's broken," he informed Lee. The Dunmer remained silent almost to a point when he thought she hadn't heard him.

"There's not much to be done for her now. We'll send someone to get her once we're back in the Great Hall," she suggested in a flat tone. Martin nodded to himself and examined the other two soldiers. One was alive, albeit having been burned badly by the fire atronachs ahead. The other wasn't so lucky.

Savlian Matius had insisted Martin accompany the small group sent forth to rescue the Count while he and his men held fast in the Great Hall. Not only would the Count likely need a healer, but Martin also suspected the Captain had wanted Lee to tag along as an extra sword. And now, though they were almost at their goal, only Martin and his mysterious bodyguard were still standing to complete the task.

"How many?" he asked the Dunmer. She leaned out over the corner, peering into the hallway to where several flaming figures seemed to await them in ambush.

"Three," Lee replied, hefting the sword in her hand, then sheathing it. "I can get them all if I'm fast enough. You stay here," she added, although he wasn't sure whether she meant him or the wolf.

Before Martin could protest, the dark elf launched herself into the hallway, rolling and dashing sideways to dodge the fiery missiles coming her way. The wolf tensed, but stayed at Martin's side, his ears pricked. Even from his inadequate vantage point Martin could still watch as the Dunmer rushed headlong into her enemies, ducking beneath a fireball to lop at a fire atronach's neck and spinning to confront another a breath later. As she hacked away at the atronachs, darting in and out of their reach and away from their scalding touches, he had to admit she was impressive. He wasn't too sure in what way.

"You're either reckless or brilliant," he concluded with a glance at the charred remains of the atronachs, rejoining the elf as she patted out the flames in her hair and armour. She winced.

"Don't even get me started."

Martin gave a weary chuckle. Before he could come up with a reply, the Dunmer was pulling him forward, her expression serious again.

Several smoking hallways and ceaseless battles later, they were finally at the door to the Count's chambers. It had been smashed open, the splintered remains hanging off the hinges. Peeking inside he caught a glimpse of ruined furniture and flames eating away at the wall hangings. It was a sorry sight.

Lee hissed in apprehension and motioned for Martin to stay where he was, then edged into the chamber, the wolf a step behind her.

"He's dead," her voice resounded over the crackling of the fire. Martin approached to see her standing over the body of Count Ormellius Goldwine, sprawled limply on the floor, his still chest drenched with blood. Looking up at Martin, she added softly, "He's been dead for some time. We couldn't have saved him."  
Martin nodded, surveying the room. Several other bodies were visible; those of daedra as well as the Count's loyal bodyguards. Eyes open, faces frozen in shock and pain, the spectacle was like something out of a nightmare and the reek of burning bodies made him want to gag.

Ending her futile search for survivors, the Dunmer threw one final bitter glance at the room and headed back towards the door, pulling Martin out of his horrified trance.

Suddenly the wolf growled, his fur bristled. Lee halted abruptly and Martin nearly bumped into her.

"Dammit! By all the bloody fires of Oblivion, damn it all!" she hissed as she kicked aside a piece of broken furniture to reveal yet another body, one clad in familiar crimson robes. Lee spun around to confront Martin, "Have there been more of these in the city?"

"Several dozen, I think," Martin nodded, studying her in surprise, "Why?" The Dunmer only scowled in response.

"Damn it," she said again, grabbing Martin's arm and steering him towards the exit. "We need to get you out of here now. I thought maybe there'd be time to rest but you have to leave the city as soon as possible," she droned on as she pulled him along the charred corridors.

"Why? What's going on? Do you know who they were? Answer me!" Martin demanded with a futile attempt to wrench himself free of her grip. The Dunmer halted as abruptly as she had dashed into motion. She gave Martin a long, probing look, then said, slowly and deliberately,

"I don't know who they were. But I know why they were here. It's because of you."

"What?" Martin gasped, both astonished and horrified.

"I'm sorry," Lee sighed, wiping at her forehead with a weary gesture and only succeeding in smearing the grime even more, "That wasn't meant to sound so harsh. But it's about time you knew. The sole purpose of the attack was to get at you. In a nutshell, these people are the ones who assassinated the late Emperor Uriel and his three sons. And now they're trying to kill you to complete the set. You're his last known son."

Martin stared at her as the weight of her words sunk in.

"You think the Emperor is my father?" he found himself saying with a half-laugh devoid of humour. The solemn, patient gaze that met his told him she thought exactly that. "You're mistaken," he said. "My father was a simple farmer. I am not related to the Emperor in any way. You must be mistaken." Every new word of denial he pressed out was sounding less and less convincing even to his own ears.

The Dunmer sighed.

"Look, if you can come up with a better explanation for why a pack of rabid Daedra worshippers used a portal to Oblivion to raze an entire city, I'm all ears." She looked at him expectantly and spoke on when he failed to answer. "You're the Emperor's son," she repeated. "He had ordered you to be dropped off in a place where you'd grow up ignorant of your heritage. You're his son, that much is certain - if nothing else, you look a lot like him. You may be illegitimate, but at the moment you're the only candidate for the throne the Empire has. Are you starting to believe me now?"

Martin leaned against the wall, his fingers tracing the coarse, comfortingly familiar surface of the stones. It seemed incredible, impossible and far too exotic to be true, yet in the light of everything else that had occurred in the past hours...

"...It couldn't make more sense," Martin said weakly, more to himself. He looked at the Dunmer. "I can't imagine why you would lie to me about this. I... yes, I believe you." He shook his head, surprised at himself for saying it, then asked the Dunmer softly. "What do you want me to do?"

Lee hesitated, eyeing him somewhat appreciatively.

"You have to get to safety. I'm supposed to take you to Weynon Priory near Chorrol to see someone important. Will you go?"

Strange, she actually seemed to be asking him. After the woman had just fought through an Oblivion Gate and an entire city swarming with daedra, all of it just to keep him alive, he wondered how she would take 'no' for an answer. Not that it mattered, anyway.

"You closed the Gate," he said with a bitter smile. "No matter your motives, you gave hope to those who were still alive to have it, and you've already saved my life more than once. The least I can do is follow you to this priory."

"Good," she said simply, turning and resuming her hasty stride down the corridors. "I hate to do this, but we'll need to be far away from the city before we can even think of resting," she shot over her shoulder. "If the assassins check back in, you'll be far more difficult to find in the middle of the wilderness. Let's report back to Matius and then we'll set right out."

Martin nodded absentmindedly, following meekly as they made their way back to the Great Hall. As he pondered this new revelation, the implications of it threatened to overwhelm him. What would the future be like? Was he, a simple priest of Akatosh with more than his share of dark secrets, on the way to become Emperor?

The idea was mind-boggling. As the single most powerful individual in all of Tamriel, he would be expected to rule over thousands of subjects and regularly make decisions viable to change their lives forever. Armies would stand at his disposal, a crushing force so delicate and easy to abuse... Endless ranks of men ready to die at his command, ready to give their lives for his sake...

Like Kvatch? Was this to be his first achievement as Emperor, causing the death of an entire city simply by being there? Was there more to come?

Kvatch was destroyed. The mortar of the city had been crumbled, the wood charred to ashes. Countless lives of men, women and children had been snuffed out like sparks in a snowstorm. None of them had deserved this.

Many hectic minutes later, as he shadowed the mysterious Dunmer back to the chapel, all he could hear were her words, echoing in his mind over and over again.

_Because of you..._


	15. Wide Awake

_All was quiet... Like floating in a lake at dawn with her eyes closed. Every now and then, a patch of something would streak the soft darkness, allowing her glimpses of whatever abomination of common sense her mind could come up with. And the vague feeling of numb fatigue was ever present, hovering at the periphery of her consciousness. Yet for the most part, the silence was left undisturbed._

_And then, all of sudden, flames were eating away at her body, tongues of fire consuming her hair and heat boiling her skin. She tried to breathe but found herself gagging; the smell of torn flesh being burned to charred cinders, mixed with the foul odors of blood and decay; it was all too much for her abused senses... But before that could even register, the fire was inside her, swallowing her face and her ragged gasps for breath-..._

Liallan shuddered and finally jerked awake, panicking when she saw something bright and burning at the edge of her vision. She flailed wildly, scrambling backwards away from the danger even as she recognised it for what it was - a small, harmless campfire they had built to drive away the wet chill of the cave.

Liallan glared at the fire, looking away with another shudder when the feeling of panic threatened to return. She then glanced at Martin and nearly flinched when she saw that he was wide awake and watching her, his face creased with worry.

_Definitely blue eyes._ As she blinked at him like an owl caught in daylight, her trail of thought skidded to a halt at that one observation.

"Why aren't you asleep?" she demanded, sounding entirely too defensive. It had been too long since another humanoid had watched her sleep and merely the fact that he was just sitting there,_watching_ her, made her ridiculously uneasy. For a moment she had wondered if he was standing guard... she was about to tell him that he didn't need to do that, but his troubled expression brought the memory of recent events rushing headlong into her mind. As he seemed about to answer, she winced, cutting him off with a gesture. "I'm sorry, that was a stupid question," she sighed, pulling up her feet and further distancing herself from the fire. Welcoming the comforting chill of the air, she let the mess of blankets covering her slide to the floor.

Martin didn't answer for a moment, then shrugged.

"It's alright. You must be tired."

Stifling a hysteric laugh at the all too obvious observation, she pointed out,

"You're not looking too good either."

He gave a dry chuckle at that and the bitterness momentarily made him seem several centuries older. His face was drawn, the lines set into a perpetual frown of worry. The hair was tangled and disheveled and dark circles swept beneath his eyes. Liallan mentally kicked herself - seeing your home town destroyed was bad enough; she really should've allowed him to sleep it out before further burdening him with news of his heritage.

"I can't sleep," he confessed, staring into the dark past Grey's attentively pricked ears. "What about you? Nightmares?"

Liallan nodded, scowling at nothing in particular. While in Kvatch, she had passed the point when she'd thought she'd drop dead with exhaustion many times over. For all intents and purposes, she felt completely drained. She wanted nothing else other than to curl up in a corner somewhere, stick her head into a pillow - or a pile of leaves - and just lie still even if the world came crashing down on top of her. Yet now, even with her eyes stinging and every sinew of her muscles poised in stress despite the soreness and ache, she could hardly force herself to blink, let alone fall asleep again. The idea of rest currently just seemed like returning into that smothering hell of a nightmare again and the recollection alone kept her wide awake.

Dead, unenthusiastic silence settled in again, broken only by the steady crackle of fire - _fire_, Liallan realised with another shudder. Still ever so conscious of how desperately she needed to recuperate, she tried to lull herself back to sleep, turning her mind to happy thoughts, sunshine and kittens... Yet in the light of the recent events, those notions burned away as surely as a butterfly wing tossed to the whim of the flames. Like a tired old song she couldn't get out of her head, memories of the last lingering few hours sneaked their way back into her mind.

They had left the smoking ruins of the city behind. Matius had insisted on naming her a bloody hero and presenting her to the populace under the glorious pseudonym of 'Lee, the Hero of Kvatch'. She'd tactfully diverted the attention to the fact that Menien had also played his role in closing the gate, and while the Imperial was preoccupied fending off grateful admirers, she'd seized Martin and slipped away, still getting cornered by Matius in the process. He'd assured her that her name would forever remain on the lips of the survivors - '_Lee_, the Hero of Kvatch'? - and had coaxed her into accepting a suit of Kvatch guard armour as a gift. From what she could tell the suit seemed enchanted, but the white chainmail with the wolf's standard was too clanky and conspicuous for her tastes. She'd stuffed it into her pack atop Dapple and resolved to deal with it later, which in her book probably meant in about one thousand years.

They'd been lucky - one of the survivors, an elderly woman, had given Martin her horse, tirelessly thanking him for all that he had done. Despite herself, Liallan had been impressed. From what she could tell the future Emperor had played a grand role in keeping the death count as low as possible in the height of the conflict. Certainly he'd displayed more courage and prowess than she'd expected of him, both from what had been recounted of the attack as well as the reclamation of the castle. He wasn't bad... for a priest.

Still dead exhausted and dripping with the remains of their enemies, they'd ridden north-east through the wilderness, halting only a few hours later when they were literally in the middle of nowhere, more often referred to as the region north of Skingrad. From there, they'd entered the first cave that was deemed appropriately abandoned and unlikely to be infested with goblins or vampires and had broken camp. Quite luckily, an underground stream running through the lower caverns had provided an opportunity to rinse off the majority of the grime before settling down. Grey had been promoted to the glorified position of sentry and the two humanoids had finally submitted themselves to a state of limp stupor.

Liallan had lain still for what had seemed like hours, unable to put her mind to rest as her every sense kept screaming a distress signal. One way or another, exhaustion had eventually gotten the better of her and she'd managed to doze... only to be pulled awake by a simple nightmare. For her companion's sake, she hoped she'd get enough sleep sometime soon, or she'd likely kill the priest in a fit of irritation and then all will have been for nothing.

She looked over at the would-be Emperor. Martin was silent, staring at the fire with something akin to morbid fascination. After a few moments, he tore his glance away from it and back into the darkness of the cave passage._ Good boy,_ Liallan thought with amusement. He actually remembered not to let himself be blinded by the fire while supposedly keeping watch; it was obvious he'd spent at least a bit of time out on the roads, back-to-back with every menace the night had to offer. Probably not in the last few years, though - his physique reflected the opposite. It wasn't that he was fat or chubby, just... a little soft around the edges, and even now the strain of the siege had all but erased the impression.

Once again, his blue eyes were demanding all the attention. While not at all unusual for his race, combined with the rather tan skin and the brown hair, the blue seemed startling, even exotic - a quality she'd hardly ever associated with the Imperials.

He'd probably make a half decent emperor, Liallan caught herself thinking. He certainly seemed to have some kind of natural leadership qualities and a good heart, from what she could judge. More importantly, he had been raised as a member of the populace; he wasn't likely to do much worse than a prissy noble nurtured in cream and raisins, with pamper changes around the clock.

He had his share of charisma, as well.

For the sake of the Empire, she hoped his appearance was where the resemblance to his father ended. Maybe being crazy ran in the family, as it often did, but Liallan had her fingers crossed for the contrary. Besides, now that she thought of it - and now that most of the grime had been washed off - he didn't look that much like his sire. True, he had the same wide face, the heavy jaw, the wide nose and the exact same blue eyes - a trait that kept jumping at her with every flicker of the firelight, she kept noticing - but he still looked... different, for lack of a better word. There was something about the tightening of his lips and the slight creases between his thick, masculine eyebrows that rang of determination and untapped endurance. He looked... stronger. Infinitely stronger than the resigned old dog she remembered the late Emperor to have been.

Or the light could be playing tricks on her.

Another sudden observation made her stifle an indignant giggle. It was the hair, hanging down the heir's face in two brown, slightly wavy curtains... She'd seen hunting dogs with floppy ears that looked almost exactly like that, masses of long, thick curls drooping from the sides of the head. Seeing that always filled her up with high-pitched cooing sounds and made her want to reach her fingers into those silky locks and ruffle them. _Oh Gods, this is hardly a suitable thing to compare the majestic future Emperor of Tamriel with..._ But it was too late. Before she could stop it, an image of Martin making sad puppy eyes crept into her mind, which, combined with the ears...

Liallan buried her face in her hands, shaking in desperate attempts to smother the frantic snickering. Here she was, a momentary bodyguard and subject of the future Emperor, and she was now forever stuck with the image of a sad, cute little hunting puppy in her head.

"Er... Is something wrong?"

Liallan held her breath, forcing her features to relax, then removed her hands from her face and inhaled deeply, focusing on the texture of the cave walls as she took several experimental breaths._ I'm being irrational. Yes, that's it. I'm so high-strung and fatigued that I have to break into hysterical laughter as soon as I think of Martin as a... _

"...Uh... Lee?"

_Oh Gods. A puppy. With blue eyes, curly ears and the sad sagging doggy face._

Liallan chortled but managed to control herself. She really had trouble staying serious at the moment... She took several more careful, deliberate breaths. Once she was satisfied that she could breathe without breaking into a fit of laughter, she finally looked over at Martin , who was wearing an expression somewhere between confusion, well-meaning worry and downright unease.

"Um, yeah," she replied with dashing eloquence. "Sorry. I was... nevermind. And it's not Lee. It's Liallan."

"Liallan?" the heir repeated experimentally, wrapping his tongue around the unusual name. "Is Lee the short form, or...?"

"Not exactly. It's just the first thing I made up when I had to introduce myself." At his uncomprehending look, she explained, "One of the reasons is that the Grandmaster wants me to remain fairly anonymous. Personally I think it would be best if he explained it..."

"The Grandmaster?" Martin looked intrigued.

"Yes," Liallan sighed. "I'm taking you to see Jauffre, the Grandmaster of the Blades, who currently resides in Weynon Priory near Chorrol. He should take all the necessary steps to ensure you're crowned as Emperor as soon as possible."

Martin's face clouded over at that.

"Emperor," he said softly, frowning slightly. "That idea will take some getting used to, I suppose. You're a Blade then, I take it?"

"Um, no, not exactly. Certainly not," Liallan cringed. "Alright. Since you're having such an easy time falling asleep, I suppose I ought to tell you the whole story." Martin's lips twitched briefly at the sarcasm, then he regained his attentive expression. Liallan sighed again.

"To start with, on the evening when the Emperor was murdered, I was convicted in the Imperial Prison. I was falsely accused, by the way, but it doesn't really matter if you believe me. That's not the point. Assassins, just like the red-robed people you saw at Kvatch, attacked the Emperor in the White Gold Tower. He tried to take a secret route out of the city to escape. By way of chance, the secret route led straight through my cell. He insisted his bodyguards let me tag along. Then... Well, his last resort, the ultimately secret passage, happened to be crawling with those same assassins, ambushing us at every turn. Eventually, it was just me, the Emperor and his last bodyguard driven into a corner. The Emperor, he...The whole way, he kept speaking of _visions_ sent to him by the _Gods,_ he kept saying he was supposed to die, it was his destiny. In the end, the old fool just stood and let himself be cut down when an assassin slipped past! After his Blades had put so much effort into saving him. After they'd died for him. It was all for nothing. Before that, he gave me the Amulet of Kings and told me to bring it to Jauffre and find his last surviving heir... among other things, like a load of gibberish about closing the Jaws of Oblivion and stopping the Prince of Destruction. You can guess the rest. I sought out Jauffre and subsequently got hauled into the job of fetching you from Kvatch. He thinks there might be an information leak among the Blades, which is why he sent me and not one of the usual suspects for such errands. So at the end, I arrived in Kvatch to find that is has been burned to the ground. The city was sealed off and I needed to get inside. I took the only option available."

Martin was studying her in surprise. Eventually, he said,

"You mean you closed the Gate... That was very brave of you." There was something about the respectful appreciation in his voice that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Hardly," she snorted. "Believe me, if I had had any choice, I would've high-tailed it out of Kvatch the moment I saw how much trouble it was."

"Why didn't you?"

"Well, there _was _the little fact that the Grandmaster outright _threatened_ to make my life a living hell if I didn't get you to the priory in one piece. And since he's probably one of the best-connected men in the Empire, I doubt he was bluffing. He said he was holding me personally responsible for your safety. Faced with choosing between two hells, I decided to pick the literal and take my chances with that."

"Was that it?" his face was oddly contemplative. Once again, the sheer impression that he was seeing very deep into her made her uncomfortable.

"Yes," she stated resolutely. "I didn't brave the horrors of Oblivion out of simple love of man and merkind, if that's what you're getting at, so you can drop any illusions you've acquired about the glorious Hero of Kvatch." She stared at him, eyes narrowed, daring him to assume otherwise.

He dared - credit to him. With a very faint smile, Martin Septim eyed her with that same thoughtful expression and prodded softly,

"And yet you still went out of your way to keep the remaining soldiers and citizens alive. I'd noticed. Not to mention rescuing Menien. I heard him talk about it, you went through a lot of trouble to save him when you could've abandoned him." As Liallan began to seethe a response at him, Martin interrupted with a gentle gesture. "It doesn't matter. I don't think you're reflecting on yourself in the most objective light, but whatever your intentions, I'm grateful you came when you did. Thank you."

Liallan shifted her weight in discomfort, looking away.

"Fine," she muttered. "But if you think this means I'll go on more glorious ventures in yours or Jauffre's name, you're gravely mistaken, your Imperial Majesty."

He gave a brief chuckle, but suddenly his face froze, his eyebrows furrowing in contemplation again. "What?" Liallan demanded, wondering what turn of thoughts occupied him at the moment.

"The Emperor... What did he say again?"

"Er... 'Take the Amulet to Jauffre and find my last heir?'"

"No, the other part. The gibberish."

"Something about shutting the Jaws of Oblivion and defeating the mortal servants of the Prince of Destruction. Is that what you mean?"

"Strange..." Martin murmured, staring into the fire. Then he turned to face her again. "The Prince of Destruction is likely none other than the Daedric Lord Mehrunes Dagon," he said earnestly. "And it seems 'Jaws of Oblivion' is a term more literal than figural."

"Sizzling harpies of Aetherium, you're right..." Liallan muttered, shaking her head at the implication. "So what do you suppose? I know that thoughtful look must mean something."

"The answer is clear, I think... The only explanation is that the Emperor was seeing the genuine visions those of the Dragonblood are rumoured to experience. Glimpses into the future, granted by the Nine Divines themselves." Suddenly Martin blanched, his face turning ashen grey even in the fire's light. "Good Gods..." he croaked, letting out an exasperated breath.

"Martin?" Liallan called, both alarmed and perplexed.

The would-be Emperor didn't answer. He shuddered slightly, his head in his hands, the brown locks trickling through his fingers and past his eyes. He shook his head faintly, as if in denial.

"Martin, I would appreciate it immensely if you could tell me what's wrong and I'll see what I can do to help," Liallan insisted, reaching over and lightly touching him on the shoulder. A part of her was afraid he'd fall over and faint any moment even while the other part scolded her for such a ridiculous idea. "Are you injured?"

"No," came a faint sound from within the curtain of brown locks casting his face in shadow. A few more moments of silence followed. Liallan waited patiently. "I had a vision."

"What?"

Martin looked up, a new-found look of torment filling those incredibly blue eyes. "A vision," he repeated, his voice low and uncertain. "The evening before the attack. All of sudden, when I looked at Kvatch I saw the burned buildings and the red sky and the monsters. Then it disappeared again. I... I didn't know what... I should've... If only I had... " his voice faded away for a moment. Then it came again, clear and lucid, "If I had warned them, none of them would have died. That's what I was supposed to do. That must be why the Gods give us visions in the first place. So we can act on them. I should have done something. I should've... _anything_." Martin exhaled loudly and fell silent again.

Frowning, Liallan studied him for a few moments. Then she said, speaking slowly and deliberately,

"_Martin_. You had no idea you were the Emperor's son. I'm sure you didn't even know it was a vision. Oblivion moving into a Cyrodiilic city hardly seems a likely future event. And you're far too humble to jump to the conclusion that you're of royal blood and therefore the vision must be true. And even if you'd tried to warn someone, no one would've listened. People don't like to face changes at a moment's notice, least of all because one person insists on it. They'd rather pretend the danger isn't there and hope to wish it into nothingness. What happened at Kvatch was tragic, but it wasn't your fault, and you couldn't have done anything to prevent it."

Blue eyes glinted back at her. "You're remarkably rational, do you know that?" He sighed. "You're probably right. Still... I hesitated to act when it could've made a difference. It... _It will not happen again_."

The fire was almost out, just faintly flickering cinders remaining. A nearly pitch-black shroud hovered over the tiny campsite, hugging at their backs. The unmistakable squeak of a rat resounded somewhere in the darkness that was Grey's domain, followed shortly by the sound of chomping.

Frowning, Liallan idly stirred the ashes, studying the Dragonborn in front of her. With everything that had happened, it now seemed what Baurus had told her of Akatosh's chosen wasn't entirely nonsense after all. With every new implication that kept unraveling itself, everything kept getting more and more confusing, yet at the same time, a bizarre pattern was beginning to emerge and the recent disasters and oddities of fate were starting to make a grotesque kind of sense. As the late Emperor's ramblings concerning her own destiny flowed back to her, she wondered where she fit into the picture.

She decided to cross that bridge when she got to it.

"You're claiming too much responsibility," Liallan finally said, sighing with resignation. Then she shrugged, flashing him a brief, tired smile. "Might as well get used to it, Your Highness."

"Please... It's Martin."

"Hm. Well, if it's Martin, maybe you should stop crying over spilled milk and try to get some rest so you can face the troubles of tomorrow, which I daresay we have more than enough of. What do you think?" she suggested, doing her best to sound light-hearted and optimistic.

He actually chuckled, studying her pensively.

"I'd say your concern for my welfare was touching, but suppose you're only being so supportive to keep the Grandmaster happy and satisfied?"

"Yes, whatever," Liallan scoffed. "After all the hard work I've done, it simply won't do to have you fall asleep on horseback and break your neck upon falling off, don't you agree? Now get to sleep."

As they set about rearranging the blankets to achieve some measure of comfort, Martin glanced towards where Grey was sitting attentively, licking the remains of the rat off his muzzle.

"What about the wolf? Won't he need to sleep?"

"He'll get over it. Besides, Grey isn't entirely an ordinary wolf, anyway. He's changed over the years," Liallan responded with a shrug.

For a few moments Martin seemed to absorb that cryptic explanation. He looked about to question her further about it, but settled on...

"Grey?"

Frowning as she inspected several tears in her bedroll, Liallan replied absent-mindedly,

"Uh-huh. Grey. His coat was grey when he was a puppy, so that's what I called him. Grey."

She looked up to see Martin studying her again, evidently trying to discern whether or not she was serious. Then he shook his head in amusement and smiled, all the lines and bitterness clearing away for a moment.

Liallan stared, recoiling slightly. There was something about his quick smile, so wide and open and honest, that immediately made her think of sunshine, rolling hills and knights riding off into the sunset, made her momentarily believe that there was hope in the world and that in the long run, good always triumphed over evil.

Were she not so convinced that the untried future Emperor was yet beyond such machinations, she would've thought he had done a charm spell. In truth, though, it was the most natural and unintentional kind of brainwashing she had ever encountered.

What was it she had thought of Martin earlier, besides the curly ears and the doggy eyes? Charisma? That didn't quite cover it. Surely the priests must have been glad to have him, but the man had entirely missed his calling. He should've become a paladin. A smile like that simply called for a suit of shining plate armour to go with it.

Caught between being chilled to the bone and wanting to poke him for another smile, Liallan carefully wrapped herself in just enough blankets to keep herself warm, now that the fire was almost out. Over the next few minutes, nearly all sounds had faded and she could only hear her own measured, deliberate breathing.

In a way, she was glad she had woken up, if only because she was now feeling much calmer. Rather than shaking it off completely, she let the feeling of warmth and optimism linger, welcoming the peace as it lulled her deeper into sleep. Feeling drowsier by the second, Liallan felt her thoughts wandering lazily to her talk with Martin.

_Doggy ears. Gods, now I'll never get that out of my head._

She gave one last, quiet giggle before losing herself to sleep.


	16. Candleflames

_Have We Angered The Gods?!_

_Chaos has cast its bloody shadow over the Empire, and before Tamriel could even hope to recover from the tragedy of the Emperor's death, yet another disaster has befallen us! The city of Kvatch, the glorious capital of the West Weald, second only to the crown gem of Cyrodiil itself, has been obliterated._

_The city has been razed to the ground, the walls crumbled, and the doorsteps of the Great Chapel of Akatosh are now strewn with bodies of the Dragon's devoted. Of the city's astronomical population, perhaps a dozen remains, now being escorted to the neighbouring counties of Anvil and Skingrad._

_The night of Kvatch's destruction is said to have been a chaotic one, with death and fire haunting every step. The distraught survivors recount a tale of a living nightmare, of a gate to the realm of Oblivion itself opening outside the city and spewing hundreds of monstrous abominations as well as a giant, flaming caterpillar that with its fiery blasts destroyed the city's mortar in a matter of seconds. Such a scenario would likely have been dismissed as the feverish inventions of the survivors' traumatised minds, were it not for numerous traces of just such an occurrence. Corpses of daedra, Oblivion's demonic denizens, litter the scene of destruction, and the gate itself has been seen by far too many members of the Legion to be considered a horrific fantasy. Despite the Watch's formidable efforts to defend the city, the attack is described to have been overwhelming with its sheer force and ferocity. Savlian Matius, Captain of the Kvatch guard, reports that "There were just too damn many. Half the city was dead before we even knew what was happening. We never had a chance against those blasted monsters."_

_The majority of Kvatch's population had been killed in the initial attack while precious few had managed to barricade themselves inside the Chapel or had even made it beyond the city's walls. According to the Captain and his score of guards, the Oblivion gate outside the city was preventing any possible rescue of those still trapped in the Chapel. A party of volunteers had been sent into the gate to search for a means to close it, yet none had returned. As the daedra kept coming and the guards' strength was wearing thin, it seemed all hope was lost – until the arrival of a mysterious heroine who hadn't hesitated to charge into the gate. Miraculously, mere minutes after the stranger's departure, the gateway crumbled, leaving Kvatch's saviour standing among the ashes, unscathed._

_Captain Matius and his comrades report that, regretfully, they "never got a really good look", but all seem to agree that the stranger was a Dark Elf woman, tall and lean of stature, with luxurious auburn hair, clad in dark garments with a bow strapped to her back. She presented herself only as 'Leelah' and further inquiries to her identity were neglected in the chaos, as the Dunmer had proceeded to leave Kvatch accompanied by a priest of Akatosh soon after destroying the gate and assisting the Captain in his reclamation of the city and the castle. Unfortunately, help came too late for the castle's inhabitants, and Count Ormellius Goldwine now numbers as yet another casualty of this mind-blowing catastrophe._

_Between the Emperor's assassination and the daedric involvement in the attack on Kvatch, the brightest minds in the Empire find themselves overwhelmed. So far, the most significant discovery is the possibility of a connection between the two events – red-robed figures like the ones involved in the attack on the White Gold Tower had been spotted in Kvatch during and following the attack. Experts are now working hard to uproot further details._

_The ruins of Kvatch are to be left unoccupied for now. The survivors have been provided with food and shelter as well as a chance to rebuild their broken livelihoods. Reparations and reconstructions, while guaranteed, will only be possible after the Empire recovers from the shock and the direct consequences of the attack. Either way, the Council encourages the citizens of the Empire to remain calm and contribute however possible to upholding the peace and recuperating from the recent losses. Now, of all times, it is essential to think rationally and fulfill one's responsibilities while allowing the Council to fulfill theirs._

_Captain Hieronymus Lex, for his part, swears to apply additional effort to seizing the Grey Fox and his gang of thieves to minimize the damage the criminal opportunists could possibly cause the Empire in this time of strife._

_What concerns the mysterious Hero of Kvatch, Quill-Weave, author of 'Red Crater' as well as countless other cherished works, has expressed a personal interest in this intriguing individual and considers writing a short documentary. She also considers contacting the heroine for any information that would possibly serve as useful reference should she decide to tap the creative potential of a story set in the Planes of Oblivion._

_Further details concerning Quill-Weave's creative plans will hopefully be announced in the next issue. _

"Read this," Harrow commanded. He slapped the sheet onto the table with an irritated sigh, then glared at the candle that had been knocked over by the impact. His interlocutor's dark eyes flicked briefly to the pools of rapidly hardening wax, and then back to Harrow with a hint of amused disdain, obviously disapproving of such clumsiness. Harrow managed to ignore the gaze, just barely. As patient as his station required him to be, some days he simply wanted to burn the face off the first fool who thought his expertise in certain areas entitled him to be condescending – _condescending! _- towards a Chosen of the Lord.

The man opposite of him shifted forward, like a statue of black fabric flowing briefly into life. He reached to lift the upper end of the sheet, glancing at the headline.

"You can read Imperial, I assume?" Harrow asked impatiently, more uneasy in the present company than he wanted to admit.

"Naturally," the man snorted, looking up with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Harrow thought he spotted the hint of a sarcastic smile, but with the black fabric covering the man's face up to the bridge of the nose, the expression really was difficult to decipher. Only the twinkling red eyes were left in sight, albeit cast into shadow by the deep hood. What Harrow could see of the flesh around seemed to be of a dusky grey-gold colour similar to his own complexion, and crisscrossed by numerous scars.

"I have already seen it," the man said a moment later, pushing the sheet of paper back towards Harrow. "With the frenzied way the couriers are working, it's difficult to miss."

"Have you anything to say on the matter?" Harrow demanded, seething at the man's nonchalant calm.

"I am, of course, most sympathetic of your losses," the dark-clad man said with a shrug. "However, if I understand correctly, suicide missions never were your concern-"

"To Oblivion with the deaths!" Harrow interrupted. The man's eyebrows gave a twitch of annoyance, but he carried on. "There is, of course, no greater glory than to die in the Lord's name, and to die for the sake of a great victory is the goal of every follower. But this," he jabbed a finger at the sheet, "this is a complete and total failure! Yes, the city has been destroyed and blood has been spilled in His name, but it was all for nothing. So few of our brothers and sisters survived the assault that so far I've found the information in the Courier to be more eloquent than anything they could report! Yes, destruction is a great thing, but we cannot afford to lose so many in an attack that leaves our primary goal unachieved! And now I find myself asking _you_ how this came to pass. They spent weeks in preparation, under _your_ guidance. You assured me they were ready. How, then, to explain the fact that the target still lives, even though every blade drawn in the attack had his name written on it? What possible explanation can there be, other than simple sloth, on _your_ end of the bargain?"

"Before you go any further," the man interrupted, his voice, suddenly cold and commanding, cutting through Harrow's rant like a razor, "I suggest you remember the kind of material you've provided for me to work with. Spoiled offspring of nobility, failed scholars, naïve apprentices with delusions of grandeur – need I continue? Had I had my way, the vast majority wouldn't have even been considered for the trade. You cannot simply select a portion of the common populace and expect them all to become brilliant artists. I won't elaborate on this, but suffice to say we recruit most of our brothers in _very_ different circles."

The man let the sentence hang, fixing Harrow with an expectant gaze, his stance maddeningly relaxed. When Harrow answered with cold attentiveness, the man added, "Besides, I seem to remember an agreement that I wouldn't be forced to share any of the techniques that makes us so formidable. You couldn't _expect_ a band of random associates to become as good as us, even if they _did_ possess the necessary qualities."

Harrow nodded in acceptance, his narrowed eyes peering into the candleflame. He then reached beneath the table and retrieved a heavy pouch. He weighed it in his hand, letting the contents jingle. The hooded man stared silently, his expression indecipherable.

"As you... realise..." Harrow spoke slowly and deliberately, his eyes on the other Dunmer's impassive face, "this setback needs to be dealt with. You'll be paid the triple of what you usually-"

"Out of the question," the man shot back, tensing slightly. "I'm treading a fine enough line already by teaching followers of your Lord which end of the blade to hold; performing a killing in his name is unthinkable. My superiors would never permit that, although, naturally, you're free to ask. But should you try to... _persuade_ me otherwise..." the man shot a brief but vehement glare at the pouch, "the only thing you would achieve is completely forfeit the hope of any future business." He rose from the table, all in one fluid, efficient motion.

"You're leaving?" Harrow inquired, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

"I've tarried long enough and my task has been completed – even if it didn't do your followers much good," he added with a chuckle.

"I still have need of your services," Harrow remarked.

"In which case you will need to petition for a new writ. Until then, I am excused."

The man turned and flowed through the doorway like a shadow, not even the candleflames were disturbed.

Harrow stared at them for a moment, then stuffed the pouch of gold back under the table. He gave another irritated sigh and started shuffling through the other documents demanding his attention, but his mind was elsewhere. The attack on Kvatch... granted, every bit of destruction was a tribute to the Lord, but the attack had, in its core, been a failure. Against all odds – and unlike the vast majority of his comrades – the Imperial s'wit had survived and had apparently been whisked off by a lapdog of the Blades. The brothers and sisters would need to be more careful in the future.

"Master Harrow?"

Harrow looked up to see an acolyte – one of the younger ones – peek into the room, a paper in his hand.

"If it's another copy of the Black Horse Courier, burn it in the most destructive way imaginable before I burn _you_," Harrow snapped. The more impressionable members of the Order all seemed to be of the opinion that he was yet unaware of the recent installment and that specifically their views on the matter would grant him the ultimate revelation. Having already mutilated half a dozen innocent Courier issues, Harrow was running out of enthusiasm.

"Uh... No, Master Harrow," the acolyte quickly regained his composure. "It's a letter, addressed to you, which is why I thought I should-"

"Just get on with it," Harrow said with a dismissive gesture and snatched the envelope when the boy cautiously edged closer. He waited until the acolyte left and tore it open, retrieving the slip of paper inside.

Over the course of the next several minutes, Harrow was absorbed in deciphering the letter, his eyes focused and his lips moving softly as he translated the gibberish into a comprehensible message.

Half an hour later, the Dunmer slowly crumpled the paper and set it on fire. As he leaned back in his seat, his dusky features settled reluctantly into a relieved smile.


	17. Green Shadows

"What news, Brother?" the figure inquired, jabbing the torch into the ground. The flame went out, the surroundings going dark save for the fading stars in the greyish sky.

"Regretfully, the roads bring few results. If our quarry is on the move, they are staying clear of them."

"It is only a matter of time. The ambush is in position? Are the Brothers ready?"

"Awaiting your word."

The man paused, his hand going up to his chin in thought. "That is good..." he muttered. "I expect the Lord's orders will be followed to the letter," he added, a hidden menace in his voice.

"Certainly. I have done my best to impress to importance of careful execution on the more unruly of the Lord's followers. I have also made it clear why it is essential to be swift so that the trap may not be sprung before its completion."

"I'm sure you have..." the man gave an exasperated grunt. "I doubt the Lord will be understanding if we let another failure further mar the record of our great victories of the past few years, and this last week in particular."

The sky had lightened considerably while they were speaking, the parts that were visible through the shroud of foliage turning a pearly pink. The younger man looked up, his hood falling back as he studied the tops of the trees where slivers of gold broke the shady monotony of the upper canopies.

"Dawn is breaking..." he muttered, glancing at his superior.

The other man did not need to look at the sky – he could tell it was _time_ by the fire of excitement rushing through his veins.

"Greet the new day," he replied with a nod. He stood still for a few moments, then nodded again and inhaled a lungful of the crisp air in an effort to contain his agitation.

Then he laughed, his teeth flashing briefly beneath the deep hood. Red mist drifted over his figure, a helm of intricate daedric steel stretching over his leering features a moment later. As he hefted his weapon, the sharp edges of the mace glinted dully in the twilight.

"Let the Cleansing begin."

xxx

It was morning in Cyrodiil, brisk and serene as only mornings could be. Perched somewhat uneasily on his mount, Martin stared ahead, keeping his eyes peeled for any danger lurking in the dim foliage but letting his mind wander. He wasn't ready to go over the countless revelations of the previous day, not yet, anyway, and resolved instead to let his thoughts relax and bask in the morning's glory. Martin found himself noticing that the gentle blue and pale pink colours of the sky were remarkably pleasing to the eye, certainly a welcome change from the bloody haze of Oblivion.

Despite everything, Martin felt his spirits lightening. Whatever horror the schemes of the Daedra could inflict upon Tamriel, there were always those who could set things right. After the countless deaths of the past few days, it seemed both comforting and unnerving that the domain of Kynareth appeared untouched in its beauty. Now, in the early hours of the morning, when the creatures of the night had hushed and the dwellers of the day had not yet awoken, a pleasing tranquility had settled over the land. Nothing disturbed the morning's peace.

Well, except for one thing.

Riding slightly ahead of him was another rider, and while the Dunmer's back blocked whatever she was doing, the muttered curses and the faint sounds of ripping paper were all too audible. It seemed 'Leelah' wasn't in the best of moods.

"I'm sure there are laws against this sort of thing," Martin said with some attempt at humour after nudging his horse forward a few extra paces to get a glimpse at the Dunmer's hands.

"It deserves to _die_," Lee hissed with vehemence, accompanied by a particularly energetic jerking motion of her wrists. A few smallish shreds of paper drifted down and were caught in the horse's mane, making Grey, who was a few strides ahead, glance at the Dunmer in annoyance.

"I understand if you're upset that the portrayal is a bit too unprecise for comfort..." Martin started with uncertainty, but Lee cut him off with another tearing gesture.

"Oh, to the hells with _that_," she shook her head, "As a matter of fact, I'm rather thankful they gave a description that no one in the entire world would recognise me by. The entire article is a joke. 'Mere minutes' after my departure? That must be Courier talk for 'hours and hours of despair'. And 'luxurious auburn hair'? If that particular hairstyle is thought so highly of in the Imperial City then I'll be sure to cover myself with daedra guts the next time I'm there."

"That may be ridiculous but it doesn't seem to justify such abuse of parchment-"

"So it doesn't. But what do you make of the fact that the cheapest, most widely-spread, common as dirt paper in Cyrodiil is now offering precise knowledge that the Hero of Kvatch marched into the city, was desperate enough to close an Oblivion Gate, and _ran off with a_ _priest of Akatosh directly after the battle_? It doesn't sound like much but it speaks volumes for whomever knows more about it than the commoners do. Had they just left that one line out, you probably would've been assumed to have died in the attack, one of those countless casualties. Whoever is behind the assassination of the Emperor and his family and the attempts on you would've been forced to track down the siege's survivors in Anvil and Skingrad and then spend days sifting through the rubble looking for your corpse – if they're that desperate to have you killed, odds are they'd probably be just as desperate to _make sure_ you're dead. And even if they'd learned you'd left from the other survivors, uprooting that information still would've cost them time. So instead, the Courier saves them what could've been _days_ of trouble, days _we_ would have used to our advantage. I hope you'll excuse me if I find it just a _tad_ frustrating!"

Martin stifled a smile; while his companion raised excellent points and the reality of them should've put a dampener on his light-hearted mood, there was something inexplicably amusing about seeing her get worked up like that.

"So let us go and smite the editors with divine justice," he offered helpfully. "I still fail to see how the parchment is to blame. _Enough_." He reached over, gently but firmly pulling the mutilated Courier out of the Dunmer's grasp. "Sweet Akatosh..." he muttered, turning it in his hands while Lee stared at the paper with narrowed eyes, like a cat robbed of its prey. This particular copy of the Black Horse Courier had been torn into bits, with strips of paper hanging off in a messy imitation of a fringe. "I suppose there's not much use in keeping this," Martin muttered to himself, then glanced at Lee. "Forgive me for having to put it out of its misery."

He was about to toss it away when Lee protested, "Hey, wait! I still need that!"

"No," Martin chuckled. "I won't stand by and watch as you torment innocent sheets of paper like that. I am a priest after all."

"You're welcome to join the Order of the Holy Fiber, Martin, I still need that paper."

"What for?" Martin asked, puzzled. The look Lee gave him in response made him wonder if he'd somehow missed a significant part of this conversation.

"It's sure to come in handy, don't you think?" she said sourly, "I want to be able to look up whenever I want exactly what kind of 'information' the Courier has shared with our lovely enemies. I need the text."

Martin stared in amazement at the paper, suddenly noticing that only the edges had been subjected to torture; the part where the actual article had been printed was somewhat crumpled, but seemed nearly unscathed.

Martin gaped at such a peculiar display of practical and _creative_ logic, then turned to look at the Dunmer in astonishment with widened eyes. For some reason, this caused her to break into another giggling fit of the kind she seemed to suffer from ever since their conversation in that cave. Martin had no means by which to compare how the Dunmer had acted _before_ the siege and was partially worried the trip to Oblivion had addled her brains.

"The way you look," Lee chuckled somewhat apologetically when the giggling ceased, as if that explained everything. "_Thank you,_" she added smoothly, using Martin's distraction to good advantage and swiftly pulling the Courier out of his hands. She glared at it for a moment, then stuffed it unceremoniously into her pack.

Martin shook his head and gave his horse a gentle nudge when she started slowing down, made wary by the thickening vegetation and the dense undergrowth. Akatosh knows he'd spent far too much time out of the saddle, and the mare wasn't the easiest of creatures to deal with, either. Come to think of it, that was true for both of his companions, although Lee was by far the more entertaining.

He was still astounded by the Black Horse Courier and how many significant details of the attack were altered or left out, seemingly for no other reason than to make it sound dramatic to the point of improbability; granted, with what had happened in Kvatch, making it seem _plausible_ would've been a far more impressive feat.

Lee had red hair, he suddenly realised, giving her a sideways glance. Not ginger red, or flaming red, and not light enough to be called blood red... instead, it was a rather dark and murky red, and after Lee had washed off most of the grime the day before, the colour didn't look that different.

_Gore-red? _That's_ new._

Martin realised he'd been staring at her hair contemplatively when she glanced sharply at him, narrowing her eyes.

"What?" she blurted.

"Your hair isn't auburn," Martin remarked. For a good second Lee actually seemed to be speechless, but recovered quickly.

"_Really?_ My life is in shambles now. But thank you – who knows how long I would've lived on in peaceful ignorance had you not come along?" she exclaimed, gesturing dramatically. "It's good to see all that heat and smoke have gone easy on your eyesight." With an exasperated shake of her gore-red locks, Lee turned away.

"Well, you asked," Martin said with a shrug, shaking his head in amusement.

"Huh, good point," Lee conceded. "Still, perhaps you should put your unique powers of observation to better use and watch out for bandits like you're supposed to."

Martin nodded and peered into the foliage surrounding him, although he failed to see the necessity. With the seemingly random and out-of-the-way route Liallan had chosen, they'd been spared encounters with any creatures save for the occasional animal the wolf always effectively chased away, and he sincerely doubted that was going to change in what few minutes of travel still separated them from their destination.

"Stop," Lee hissed. Martin pulled at the reins and saw the Dunmer slide out of the saddle and move cautiously to where Grey was standing, every muscle an embodiment of alertness. The wolf's ears were pricked and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

The feeling of peace and tranquility dissipated like smoke caught in a draft. Martin looked on uneasily as Lee knelt at the wolf's side, her body going still as she attempted to decipher whatever message the canine had caught in the foliage ahead. Suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed, Martin hesitantly dismounted, cringing when a twig snapped beneath his foot, causing Lee to shoot him a brief glare over her shoulder.

"What is it?" he whispered, staring anxiously ahead. The Dunmer only shrugged.

"Secure the horses," she said in a low voice, with her back still to him as she cautiously edged forward through the thick bushes. Martin complied, fastening the reins of both mounts to the branches of a nearby tree as quietly as he could. Lee turned to look at him, frowning disapprovingly at his shoes and his long robes. Finally she sighed and moved forward, gesturing him to follow. Like water seeping through thin tissue, the Dunmer seemed to melt into the undergrowth, the lush greenery closing in on her form.

Martin advanced through the thick shrubbery, brushing away the foliage reaching into his face and wincing at every branch that clawed at his robes and every dry leaf he failed to avoid. He moved on, his hands held protectively in front of his face to pick a kind of tunnel through the dense green shrubbery.

Green, sap green, dark green... and then, in an unforeseeable stroke of destiny, yet _more _green. Moments passed without a trace, consisting only of making one cautious step after another and straining his ears for any hint of a threat. If the waking birds and beasts of the forest could pass any warning of what was ahead, their relentless serenades held no clue for him.

Martin was not skilled in the ways of the wilderness. He was a priest. Men and women of his calling dedicated themselves to helping others, and an able healer was a boon in any battle. _This_ battle, however, stalking through green shadows in pursuit of phantoms, a hide-and-seek game with tremendous stakes and against unknown odds... It was an area in which he could admit to little expertise, and it felt strange to go from having town folk line up for his assistance to tagging along as a piece of luggage, helpless enough to endanger both himself and his companion and too valuable to be left behind.

_Valuable_. Martin hesitated for a moment, turning the word over in his mind. That's all there was to him now, wasn't it? He was essential, a figure of importance to be minded and protected at any cost. He still wasn't sure how to feel about that, but the idea of being valued for nothing but the royal blood in his veins left a bad taste in his mouth, even as a different part of his mind reprimanded him for that notion of arrogance, for thinking that he ought to be valued for entirely different reasons.

Martin halted, peering desperately ahead when he realised the Dunmer still wasn't anywhere in sight.

"Lee?" he mouthed, looking around anxiously, almost expecting his companion to drop out of the sky. "Lee!" he repeated, a notch louder.

"Shhhhh!" came a faint hissing sound from someplace to his right. Martin stifled his sigh of relief and crept forward slowly, reaching through the shrubs.

Suddenly a hand closed around his wrist and unceremoniously jerked him forward. A moment later, Martin was stretched nearly flat on the ground, another set of bushes in his face and a crouching Dunmer beside him. Martin looked up in confusion, but Lee didn't return his gaze, staring squarely ahead. "You were in plain sight like a bloated fish," she said in a low voice, the absent-minded explanation as close to an apology as he could probably get her to utter. "Keep your head down."

"What-" Martin started.

"There," Lee pointed forward with her chin, then shifted a little closer to the bushes. Martin cautiously pushed himself up, peering over the cover of leaves. For a moment, he saw nothing out of the ordinary: trees rising up in intimidating pillars and thick shrubbery clustered around... The foliage seemed to clear significantly about a hundred yards ahead...

Martin gasped, then hissed through his teeth. A patch of dark crimson clung to a thick trunk at the edge of the clearing – even at this distance the hooded robes were too much to miss. Lee placed a firm hand on his shoulder, perhaps out of habit, as if he were her wolf in need of restraining.

Speaking of wolves, Grey was conspicuously missing. After another moment, Martin realised that the red-robed figure ahead was standing with its back to them and its face to the clearing. Judging by the slim build visible through the somewhat baggy robes, the assassin was probably a Bosmer. Looking carefully, he could just make out Grey padding towards him, his movements wary but controlled and inevitably drawing closer.

Suddenly the assassin spun, giving a faint cry of surprise as the bundle of smoky black fur and flashing bared fangs hurled itself into him. The two figures collided and were promptly lost in the undergrowth.

Lee hauled Martin up, pulling him forward and out of their hiding place. She burst into motion, crossing the distance in leaping strides while sounds of struggle resounded in the bushes. Keeping up as best as he could despite stumbling every few steps, Martin arrived at the scene moments later to discover the red-robed assassin grappling with the wolf pinning him down at the chest. The assassin was writhing in pain as the wolf's gnashing teeth tore into his forearms, raised in a desperate attempt to protect the throat.

"Back," Liallan called curtly to the wolf, her blade glinting dully as it was yanked from the scabbard. Barely a heartbeat after the wolf pulled away, the Dunmer leaned forward, her sword halting inches from the assassin's neck. "A twitch, and you're wolf scraps," Lee hissed to the figure on the ground, who tensed and went completely still, save for one trembling hand grasping another in an attempt to staunch the bleeding and the red-clad chest heaving in ragged breaths.

Martin studied the assassin in surprise. The robes were now dusty and strewn with leaves and lumps of dirt and the hood had fallen back, revealing a pale, anguished, _female_ face. A girl of frail stature was staring back at them in terror, occasionally throwing glances at the wolf. Her dark hair was disheveled but aside from the dust, it was obviously clean and well-kempt. Large doe-like eyes and a pale complexion hinted at a Breton heritage and she didn't look to be much more than twenty.

The girl shifted to look at him, her eyes widening in recognition as she stared at his face and then at his robes.

"Can you cast a paralyze spell?" Lee asked, glaring intently into the face of their captive, but the slight tilt of her head suggested she was speaking to him.

"I'm afraid not... I have little experience with the school of illusion," Martin mumbled, rather disconcerted by their captive's intense, unwavering gaze, clashing violently with her otherwise motionless posture of a rabbit in shocked stupor. "What... why? What are we going to do with her?"

"Torture her for information," Lee replied without batting an eye. "Can't you at least silence her? Damn. Hold her, Grey," she ordered, ignoring Martin's incredulous stare as she moved behind the girl. Even as the wolf moved closer, his teeth gnashing, the Breton in question didn't react, still watching the priest as if entranced, and didn't even whimper as Lee pulled her mangled hands behind her back and bound them with a scrap of rope.

"_Torture_ her?" Martin stammered, feeling oddly betrayed although he'd only known the saviour of Kvatch for a single day. "Lee, you can't just... You can't mean that! She's just a slip of a girl!"

"She could be a puppy for all I care, she's still a bloody Daedra worshipper! And it's _Liallan_," the Dunmer snapped, tightening the cords with energetic movements. "We should probably let Jauffre know before we do anything with her, though," she added, more to herself.

"Bloody Daedra worshipper?" Martin echoed, staring at his companion in rising disbelief, even though he wasn't sure why. "Where did that come from? It's a very strange thing for a Dark Elf to say," he remarked.

"And it's strange to see _you_ defending one of the people who're responsible for the deaths of your relatives, not to mention the _whole of Kvatch_!" Lee retorted angrily in a sudden show of defensiveness. "Here we are, finally captured someone alive, a sneeze away from a very strategically important location, I might add, and she probably isn't staring at you just because of your charms.. And I suppose you'd rather just invite her to dinner?" the Dunmer laughed sarcastically, standing up to tower above the Breton and glaring down at her as she stalked around her back to Martin's side. "Chat with her, discuss her childhood, no doubt she'll become a better person in a matter of seconds! If that's the way the priesthood gets things done then it's no wonder-"

Martin was suddenly struck by the intensely malevolent gleam in the Breton girl's eyes; he thought he saw a lick of red mist behind her and realised she'd been chanting silently for some time now, something Lee might have noticed had she not been standing behind her the whole time, and as Grey momentarily stepped back before the Dunmer, the captured girl became an assassin once more and launched herself forward, a leer on her lips and a bound daedric dagger held easily in her bloodied hands.

Martin stumbled backward, dodging the blow, all offensive incantations forgotten as he still held on to the notion that he didn't want to hurt their prisoner. His inner debate was cut short as he tripped over a treestump and fell backwards over it, landing on his back while the girl bounded forward for another strike. Liallan closed in, jumping in front of Martin and swiping at the assassin with her sword, but the girl demonstrated impressive if somewhat jerky reflexes and danced back, evading the blow. Rather than press on, the Dunmer waited, her sword raised, briefly making a gesture that made the wolf at her side freeze in anticipation. As Martin scrambled back to his feet, he realised Lee was still trying to keep the assassin alive no matter what and felt a stab of bitterness as he recalled for what purpose.

"Cast a shock spell," Lee mouthed in steady tones, watching warily as the assassin circled them. "Just do anything to incapacitate her, but don't kill her or injure her too mu- _arghhh_!"

"An excellent idea!"

Martin was startled by the assassin's delicate, yet disturbingly manic voice, and by the flash of electricity that suddenly cut forward from her free hand, striking Lee and causing the Dunmer to drop the blade and double over, convulsing in pain. The assassin's intense gaze flitted back to Martin and her leer widened. Seemingly wary as ever of Grey's still blooded maw as the wolf interposed himself between Lee and the escaped captive, the girl chanted something and moved forward, red mist clouding her entire figure to cover it with impenetrable daedric armour as defying to a wolf's fangs as a fortress is to mere arrows.

She was a moment too late.

With a feral growl, Grey sprang forward, his powerful forefeet knocking over the small figure of the girl and his maw burrowing into the red mist. The shroud and those parts of the armour that had already formed dissolved a moment later with a flail of the assassin's limbs. Martin grimaced at the gurgled choke that reached his ears and looked away, even though the wolf's large frame was already sparing him most of the spectacle.

"_Damn!_" Lee drove her fist into the ground in frustration, still twitching lightly with the remnants of her shock spell. "Damn damn damn... damn." Lee winced as she gave another particularly painful twitch and shook her head. "I feel silly," she muttered with the hint of a bitter chuckle.

"...Is she dead?" Martin asked, his voice sounding hollow to his ears. Lee looked sideways to where Grey was standing over the assassin's limp body, blood dripping from his muzzle. Then the wolf licked the blood away, his large pink tongue lapping at the moisture. Martin felt sick, while Lee just stared on squarely, contemplating the still figure of the girl.

"Yes, she's dead alright," the Dunmer sighed finally. "Which is very bad," she added, ignoring Martin's gruff chuckle at the statement. "Not only have we missed our chance to question a prisoner – although, come to think of it, she seems to be the type typically thrown into battle as a sacrificial pawn, so she probably wouldn't have known much... though yet again, we don't know _anything_, so any detail would've helped – but now our enemy also knows who we are, where we are, and who _I _am, which is a piece of information I had been hoping to preserve for a bit..."

Martin frowned at her, momentarily getting over the fact that the Dunmer was back to her nonchalant self. "What do you mean?"

"She was a Daedra worshipper," Lee shrugged, as if that explained everything. Martin stared in confusion, and then it dawned. _Holy Divines, she's right!_

"...which probably means that she offered her soul to the Daedra she serves," Lee continued with an uncomfortable wince, thankfully interpreting Martin's stunned silence as ignorance. "If I recall correctly, the amount of control a Daedric Lord has over his followers depends on many factors, but Mehrunes Dagon is almost certain to learn whatever this assassin learned in life when her soul hops off to whatever horrid afterlife he has prepared for it. I was hoping to avoid all of that by keeping the girl alive but indefinitely locked up when we were done with questioning her... fat chance of that now. Although, now that I think of it, Lord Dagon may already know who I am from those followers of his who saw me in the prison... It just never occurred to me because I didn't know who they served..."

"And how do you know all that about Daedra worship?" Martin asked suspiciously, even feeling a stab of guilt as that was exactly the kind of question he hated to be asked himself.

Lee gave him a stony look. "I'm a Dunmer, remember?" She then strode over to where the corpse of their prisoner lay, knelt down and ran her hands over the robe. Apparently the search revealed nothing, as Lee straightened back up without comment. "...Which brings us back to the unsettling fact of finding an assassin right where I'm supposed to be bringing you." Suddenly apprehensive, Lee gestured at the clearing, where Martin could just make out the shape of a modest chapel. "Stay here and hide. Grey, guard him." Without another glance, Lee began walking away.

"Lee, wait!" Martin called and ran after her, catching up in a few strides, with the wolf trailing behind.

"_Liallan_," she corrected him sharply. "Before you protest any more, the fact that they're here obviously indicates that our enemies are somehow one step ahead of us. Therefore, this a a trap more likely than not. If you come with me and get killed, and Jauffre still somehow survives, I'll probably be officially declared a traitor of the nation and whatnot, as well as experience a great deal of other unpleasant things I'd rather avoid. Does that answer whatever you were going to ask?"

"Lee-... Liallan!" Martin sputtered. "You're just going to walk into a trap, without even your wolf companion to back you up? I can handle myself in a fight!"

"I know, that show you put on with the girl was mighty _impressive_," Lee replied smoothly, not even looking at him as she walked forward briskly. "I suppose I'll just let you blast your way in front of me and hope none of the assassins we face are young, cute, furry or elderly, or anything else you might have qualms about hitting..."

"That's not-" Martin grunted in frustration, "...Anyway, what makes you think I'll be any safer hiding in the forest than out there in the field, with both you and Grey _and_ potentially the surviving Blades to protect me?"

Lee hesitated then, frowning at the air in front of her. "Damn me if you don't have a point. You _are _a rather useless woodsman, after all..." she conceded.

"Exactly," Martin agreed smoothly, ignoring the sting of the word 'useless'.

Lee sighed, briefly screwing her eyes shut, then turned to look at Martin, sizing him up. "Fine," she said. "Stay behind me. we're almost there." Martin glanced forward at the chapel visible just ahead, flanked by several trees. The sight startled him – the heavy doors of the main building were charred and swinging open, with red-robed bodies visible here and there, and as they moved closer, sounds of struggle were audible from somewhere within. Lee cursed and drew her sword.

Suddenly an elderly Dark Elf came running towards them, the simple clothes and apron marking him as a stableman stained with dirt and blood. "We've been attacked!" He shouted breathlessly, bounding towards them. "Assassins, like the ones in the-"

Martin let a frostball gather in his fingers. Seeing her cue, Lee grabbed the stableman and pulled him down flat onto the ground, out of the way – she seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Not wasting another moment, Martin hurled his spell straight into the armoured figure hot on the fleeing Dunmer's tracks, and the assassin toppled over with a cry of pain.

"That's more like it," Lee murmured with approval as she closed in on their opponent, ending his life with a swift and precise strike of her sword just below his helmet. "Where's Jauffre?" she demanded, turning to the stableman as Martin helped him up.

"He was in the Priory before... but I think they drove him into the Chapel," the Dunmer answered, obviously bewildered. "And Brother Maborel is _dead!_ And Brother Piner-"

"Good enough," Lee nodded quickly and ran towards the chapel, pulling Martin along.

Slamming the doors open, the Dunmer and the priest walked in on an intense fighting scene. An elderly Breton Martin assumed to be Jauffre stood with his back to the altar and an Akaviri katana out and ready, facing three more assassins in the cramped space, two of which turned around to regard the newcomers. "_You_!" the Breton shouted when Lee came charging forward, and Martin was struck by the intense hostility in his eyes, which abruptly gave way to recognition when he met the man's gaze.

Lee ignored the outcry and attacked, her sword meeting the assassin's parry in a spray of sparks. Martin concentrated for a moment, then let a precise bolt of intense electricity course into the second assassin, taking care not to hit Grey as the wolf held him off. The assassin screamed and staggered, helpless as Grey sprang at him and sent him flying towards the assassin Lee was fighting. The Dunmer moved back as Martin sent a large frostball into both assassins, finishing them off. Using his own opponent's distraction to good advantage, Jauffre struck like a snake, stunning and then skewering the assassin.

Regarding with disdain the pools of blood and the corpses littering the sacred floor of the chapel, the Grandmaster turned to look at Lee and her companions.

"You," he repeated, somewhat incredulous. As Lee lifted an eyebrow askance, Jauffre turned to look at Martin, and his eyes widened.

"By Talos! The Amulet!" he gasped, then ran past them, out the door and towards the priory. Lee stared in disbelief, then ran after him.

A few moments later, they were in what had obviously been Jauffre's study, only in complete disarray. The furniture had been turned over, the carpets and wall hangings torn to shreds and all kinds of books, papers and potions were strewn on the floor. Trekking hurriedly across the piles of debris, Jauffre promptly disappeared into an opening in the wall where the wooden panel had been bared and moved aside.

"It's gone!" Jauffre's cry was plaintive and desperate. Following Lee into a small secret room, Martin saw the Grandmaster of the Blades crouched before a chest with the lid hanging off like a broken jaw.

"What do you mean?" Lee blurted, moving closer to study the remains of the chest. Even from where he was standing, Martin could see papers and odd objects yet nothing even remotely resembling a huge red bauble.

Jauffre's posture was tense. His hand was on the edge of the chest and his fingers were curled into a fist.

"They took it, it's gone," he repeated through clenched teeth. "The Amulet of Kings is gone."

Lee gave an anguished groan and smacked her head against the wooden panel.


	18. Puppies and their Kin

Snow had fallen during the night and was now smothering the ground and the slanting rooftops in a thick white blanket. The sky over Bruma was cloudless and frosty blue, the heavy masses of fog that had harboured the blizzard having long dissipated. The chill that remained was like an intruder with spiky fingers, prickling painfully at tender flesh.

It was blasted cold, and as Geon Woodsley stood with his back to the door of the Jerall View Inn, shivering uncomfortably and shifting his weight from one leg to the other, it promptly occurred to him that he could just as well laze about for a few extra hours. Turning around, he pulled the heavy door open and slipped back through, all too eagerly embracing the warmth. The innkeeper Hafid throw an amused glance at him, no doubt correctly interpreting his swift return. Hiding his irritation at the Nord, Geon moved over to the fireplace and, taking care not to disturb the old hound resting in front of it, settled into a worn chair and relaxed.

The room was nearly silent save for the cheerfully crackling fire. The few patrons that had already left their beds were still quiet and drowsy and allowed Geon to collect his thoughts in peace. Throwing a glance at the small windows, with the bleak morning light penetrating the intricate designs of frost patterns on the glass, he realised he had misjudged the climate of the Jerall Mountains. Leaning closer to the fire, Geon frowned slightly as he wondered if he'd be able to find a warm cloak of a cut befitting his stature in a down-to-earth place like Bruma. If anything, his need to outline and emphasise his rank for all to see had grown stronger in Cyrodiil, where, even anonymously, he had become a figure to be noted, far more than just another face in the countless ranks of young nobles struggling for recognition. He reminded himself that the traits of value and scarcity were as good as interchangeable and that an individual only commanded significant power if few others stood in his way.

Geon smiled. Contrary to his expectations, he was enjoying his stay in Cyrodiil, though he couldn't tell if the province genuinely appealed to him or if he was merely flattered by the way the little details kept indulging his ego. He had quickly realised that having money to spare easily provided influence over those who were in need, in a way that never would've been possible in his homeland.

Feeling high-spirited and amiable, Geon reached down towards the shaggy old hound sprawled on the floor in front of him and scratched it between the ears. The dog jerked in surprise, its head snapping over to look at him, but after a moment closed its eyes in obvious pleasure. Geon scratched it some more, then gave the dog a good-natured pat on the back and leaned back in his chair again. He had a high respect of animals, be they cats, hounds or lethal-beaked falcons. Then again, it could just as easily be his affection of things that could be controlled showing through again.

Geon heard the door open and a faint, familiar pang at his awareness made him glance over. Recognising the person, he turned back to stare into the flames for the sake of discreetness. He then slowly stood up, stretching slightly, and walked over to the bar. He waited until the Nord noticed him, then ordered breakfast. As Hafid nodded gruffly and started preparing it, Geon heard a quiet voice behind him.

"You better not be planning on eating that, Breton."

Geon's shoulders sagged slightly. He glanced sideways at the heavily-clothed figure next to him.

"Morning, Jearl," he said softly. "Hear anything interesting?"

The Redguard woman smiled, the wide line of her mouth giving her the look of a feline that had just eaten the proverbial canary. "Oh, this and that. I hear slavery in Morrowind has been almost completely abolished."

"That's not what I meant," Geon chuckled.

"Then come with me." Jearl turned and made for the door. The few drowsy patrons on the ground floor of the inn didn't seem to pay them any attention, so Geon hurried after her, following her outside before Hafid could start complaining.

Although the sun ought to have made things warmer by now, the cold still struck him anew as he moved outside. Muttering a faint oath, Geon broke into a run to catch up with Jearl, who was several paces ahead. Slowing down to a hasty walk beside her, he asked again,

"What news, Jearl?"

"A scamp just showed up in my study."

"And?"

"You're to meet up with several others from Bruma at the east gate this afternoon. You will need to split into two groups - one is to position itself at the Orange Road, the other at the Silver. Our quarry is coming and we need the noose tightened."

"Someone in particular we are watching out for?"

"Yes. The Dragonborn."

Geon skidded to a halt. Jearl stopped and looked at him impatiently. He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm not certain what amazes me most – that I am trusted with this important a task, or that the man is still alive."

"A problem you'll work hard to eliminate, I'm sure. Now listen. He'll be travelling with at least two bodyguards, a dark elf woman and a priest who may be the Grandmaster of the Blades. Don't do anything foolish and use whatever advantages you can get. And don't get over-confident. Success is the highest accomplishment you can achieve here. This is your chance to earn recognition from the Lord."

"I am well aware of that..." Geon muttered, doubly aware of the fact that Bruma was damn _cold_.

"Then don't betray the Lord's trust. There's something else. It's possible they will be going cross-country and not by road. You, with a companion of your choosing – you better pick the Nord, he knows the area well – will have to find a vantage point from which you can observe anyone approaching Bruma from the west. If you spot our target, alert your fellow Brothers and Sisters so that you can ambush the target together. Do you understand?"

Geon nodded. "How much time do we have?"

"Several hours, half a day, perhaps. They'll be travelling from Chorrol and uphill, so use your best judgement."

"I am grateful for this honour."

"You better be, associate," Jearl replied solemnly. She then patted him on the shoulder. "May we meet in Paradise..."

"..And bask in the Lord's glory."

She walked away, leaving Geon deep in thought. To be true, he was less than pleased to be assigned a position that could easily end up away from all the action, if the Septim heir _did _decide to take the roads.

He started heading towards the east gate, then changed direction for the Novaroma. Looking up, he watched the misty swirls of his breath drift upwards into the flawlessly blue sky. He certainly didn't relish the idea of spending the afternoon crouching in the snow with an oaf of a Nord for company and simply hoped the reward for his success would be worth it.

If worst came to worst, and the escapade turned into a disaster, the local priests were no doubt accustomed to healing frostbitten extremities. As he pondered that, the irony of priests of Talos healing an agent of their god's precious empire's destruction did not escape him. Geon imagined the unwelcome image of Bruma going up in daedric flames and wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, or even if his feelings were relevant.

Raised from birth to be cautious and objective about everything, Geon had his share of reservations about serving an incarnation of mayhem and destruction. Nevertheless, it were the circumstances and not his preferences that ultimately dictated his actions, and under these circumstances only an idiot would pass up an opportunity like that.

_I am no idiot._ Arriving at that satisfactory conclusion, Geon decided that he would have plenty of time to think in the afternoon. Assuming he could convince the Nord to lay off singing songs to pass the time.

Either way, it was damn cold, and he still needed a cloak.

xxx

The hooves of the three horses beat a steady rhythm into the road as they left the walls of Chorrol behind them, the hazy shape of the city little more than a smudge in the tableau of unyielding trees.

_Bloody Amulet. _Liallan threw an angry glance over her shoulder and then at the tense back of the Grandmaster riding in front. Careful not to run the wolf over, she nudged her horse to pick up the pace, catching up with her two companions.

"Alright, Jauffre, we've put Chorrol behind us and are now officially on our way," Lee said. "Now how about some questions and answers?"

Jauffre sighed. "Tell me of your own journey, first."

"Oh fine, I can do that," Liallan shrugged. "I'll go out on a limb and say you've already read the Courier, so you have the basic idea. I arrived in Chorrol during the aftermath of the attack. Martin was trapped in the Chapel with some other survivors and the Guard couldn't get in because of a portal to the realm of Oblivion standing in the way. With no other available options, I went into it and eventually managed to close it from the inside. I contacted Martin in the chapel, after which we helped the soldiers retake the castle, and then we headed straight for the Priory."

"You keep downplaying your accomplishments," Martin noted with a faint smile that almost made him look as if he were proud of her, and Liallan had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Braving the Gate is something few would have dared to do, especially after those already sent into it failed to return."

"Stop right there, Martin," Liallan objected. "Going into the Gate? Seriously, don't ever congratulate me on that decision. It was the most stupid and reckless thing I've done in my life... Which is saying something..." she muttered to herself.

"That does not change the fact that you entered the Gate and managed to reap a glorious victory where others had failed. However this turns out, in years to come-"

"Um, _excuse me_, Martin!? Maybe all that Courier talk has gone to your head, but consider this: Of the two of us, I was there and you weren't. So which do you think has a better idea of exactly how bloody _glorious_ my time in Oblivion was?!" Liallan exclaimed, shaking her head in exasperation.

"You wasted time in the castle?" Jauffre seethed, interrupting the exchange. "While such actions are honourable, I made it crystal clear that your priority was first and foremost locating Martin and getting him back to the Priory as quickly as possible!"

Liallan glared in defiance at the Breton. However, before she could say a word to defend herself and tell the high and mighty Grandmaster to shove it, Martin spoke up.

"Actually, Jauffre, it is no fault of hers. I was the one who insisted we help the soldiers retake the castle. To her credit, Lee tried to stop me."

"What he says," Liallan gestured smugly at the would-be Emperor. "I would've tied him up, but too many guards were watching," she chuckled. "And it's _Liallan_," she reminded him.

"I..." Jauffre seemed to hesitate. "...I cannot question your choices, Highness, but you ought to exercise more prudence in matters concerning your own life. The Blades are duty-bound to serve you-"

"...Which means they'll jump in front of enemy arrows and inexplicably throwable swords if it means saving your life," Liallan cut in, her voice taking a serious note. "Technically, at that point I hadn't yet told Martin who he was, only that he needed to come with me, but I'll have to support the Grandmaster on this." She frowned at the heir. "So in the future, do both the Empire and your bodyguards a favour and stay out of trouble, alright?"

Martin nodded, his gaze unfocused and a thoughtful frown creasing his face. She wondered if she ought to feel guilty for hanging so much onto him in so little time. Liallan then stopped wondering and turned her thoughts elsewhere. She sighed.

"And that brings us up to date. Now, _honoured_ Grandmaster..." she turned to face the Breton, her annoyance drifting to the surface all too easily again. "We were about to discuss something when you ushered us out of that death trap of a priory. Would you like me to remind you where we left off?

There was a faint flash of anger and shame in the Breton's sharp eyes and Liallan had to momentarily wonder if baiting him was such a good idea, but at the moment she couldn't do much to resist. Fortunately, Jauffre spoke up, his voice reserved.

"I was examining the Amulet to ensure that it was, indeed, genuine, when we were attacked. It was early morning. While they managed to land a few early blows while were were still getting our bearings, we recovered quickly enough to put up a decent defense. They had superior numbers, but by taking advantage of our surroundings we managed to draw the battle out for a bit, up until the point when you arrived. It was my impression the attack had been meant to be a short one. Either way, your arrival caught the assassins at a disadvantage." Jauffre hesitated there, then heaved a sigh. "Unfortunately... Unfortunately, as you know, in the chaos they had broken into the improvised hiding place where I had placed the Amulet in the hurry."

"Wait, are you trying to say you normally _don't _keep objects of critical importance behind a pathetic hidden door in an easily destructible wooden chest?" Liallan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Lee, don't bait the Grandmaster!"

"Relax, Your Imperialness, it was a serious question."

"If you're quite done..." Jauffre's face twitched in annoyance. "Naturally, I had a far more suitable place to stash the Amulet while you were gone fetching Martin. As... unfortunate as it is, the assassins caught me by surprise."

"Hm." Liallan mulled over the information, feeling her anger ebb away. She'd initially been annoyed out of her mind by the idea that the Grandmaster of the Blades had failed to guard a bauble while she was losing skin and blood over something far more difficult to keep safe, but now it seemed that there wasn't much to blame Jauffre for. Instead, it was a horribly contrived set of unfortunate coincidences that had so effectively sabotaged a huge part of their efforts, and while no less infuriating, there wasn't much to be done.

"Where are we going now, Jauffre?" Martin asked, pulling her out of her reverie.

"On a mountain north of Bruma is an ancient fortress of the Blades, a safehouse granting refuge to the Emperor and his kin. A dozen men could hold it against an army for a month. You will be safe there."

"That siege on the Imperial Palace notwithstanding, I think we're more worried about individual intruders with sharp poisoned objects than we are about an army," Liallan noted drily. "But apart from that, who in the world builds a hideout on the top of a mountain?" She prodded irritably while giving Grey a sign to move ahead and scout.

Jauffre threw her a scornful glance. "It is not a hideout, dark elf; it is a haven - a sanctuary, if you will. It is not meant to be secret, but rather, impervious to assault. As more subtle methods of guarding the Emperor and his kin seem to have failed," his voice took a strained tone there, "then what we need now are four solid walls to hide Martin behind, where we can control the coming and going of every individual in his vicinity."

"A stone box with no way in or out isn't as safe as it sounds," Liallan replied, narrowly avoiding the urge to add 'I should know'. She grunted in bitter amusement.

"As hard as it may be to imagine, Cloud Ruler Temple is far more than a _stone box_," Jauffre retorted. "I assure you that if the _fort_ cannot keep him safe, then _nothing_ can keep him safe."

"I'm willing to bet that a week ago you would have _assured_ me that the Blades would never let anything happen to the Dragonborn," Liallan shrugged. "And now look where we are! On the run from murderous fanatics with the late Uriel's last known living offspring in tow..."

"Who is, incidentally, a sentient being riding a horse five feet away from you," Martin interjected, somewhat bemused.

"Stop being so cheerful, puppy-ears, it's your life on the line. I'm just saying that maybe you Blades would be more effective in your duties if you cut back on thinking in absolutes, that's all," Liallan said, seeing Jauffre's hard expression, though whether it was because of her criticism or her home-brewed title for the would-be Emperor, she didn't know.

Jauffre hesitated, staring squarely ahead, then replied in controlled tones,

"You know nothing of my duties, elf. Do not presume to lecture me on how to carry them out more effectively."

"Really? Where I come from, radical failures usually mean you're doing something wrong and some fresh perspective is in order."

"Rest assured I will turn to the first person with the capacity to provide that perspective; your own insight is neither warranted nor welcome."

"May your Divines help you, then," Liallan shrugged derisively. "Now what exactly makes this fort of yours so safe for your Emperor-to-be?"

"To start with, soldiers loyal to the bone," Jauffre said, "You will see when we get there." He seemed about to say something else, but remained silent, wincing slightly.

Liallan threw one last resentful glance at the spot where the Priory had disappeared from sight minutes earlier, then returned her attention to the way ahead. The thick canopies of the trees on either side of the road cast the riders in shadow and spilled rare sprinkles of sunlight onto the ground. It was getting warm, which was fine as far as Liallan was concerned. She resented the cold and believed that a supposedly well-defensible fort would be better off somewhere where you didn't need heavy supplies of firewood just to keep the soldiers from freezing. But apparently practicality wasn't high on the Blades' list of priorities.

"We need to get off the road," she called to the Grandmaster, who suddenly decided to look both annoyed and suspicious. _Oh boy._

"To what purpose?" Jauffre reined in his horse, letting her close in with him. "There are dangerous beasts in the Great Forest that we'd be better off not meeting, and crossing through the wilderness would cost us valuable time."

"Yes, well, the lack of a predefined course for us to take also means nobody knows exactly where to expect us. Considering the assassins out to get us – or, to be exact, His Priestly Majesty over here-"

"Don't call me that, please."

"...Fine, Emperor _Puppy-Ears_..."

"Lee!"

"As I was saying, considering the assassins out to get us, wouldn't that be a good thing?"

Jauffre gave her a hard look. "How are you so sure that assassins will be waiting in ambush for us?"

"Uh, because that's what anyone with a lick of sense would do when wanting someone dead really badly?" Lee raised an eyebrow. "Lure them into a trap, and if it fails block off all possible escape routes?"

"We are clearly ahead of them," Jauffre argued. "They would not have had time to prepare an ambush. Avoiding the roads would serve no purpose at all."

"If I may state my humble opinion..." Martin started.

"Knock yourself out, Emperor," Liallan said with a shrug, shooting Jauffre a smug look.

"...I believe the Grandmaster has the right of it."

"What?" Liallan stared incredulously.

"In the Great Forest, it was one thing, but up in the mountains, staying off the beaten road will probably do us more harm than good. As Jauffre said, the terrain will be more difficult to cross and doing so might actually buy our enemies the time to get the better of us."

"Alright, so that actually sounds rather reasonable, but what if they already know where we're heading?" Liallan's face was a mask of exasperation. "These assassins seem to be everywhere, what if they're already lying in wait?"

"How would they know where we're heading, elf?" Jauffre demanded. "Outside the Order, no one knows of the crucial importance of Cloud Ruler Temple. There is no reason for them to assume we would be heading there. Why should they be awaiting us?"

"Maybe because so far they've managed to stay a step ahead of us the whole freaking way?!"

"This is different," Jauffre insisted. "The assassins would need highly advanced insight into the workings of our Order to expect us there, and-"

"_Right_, so first you admit that your security measures are lacking and someone has managed to surprise you but you're still saying the measures ought to have been enough?" Liallan snorted.

"The location of the safehouses of the Blades in the Empire is highly classified information-"

"More classified than the whereabouts of the Emperor's secret heir, apparently?"

"What do you propose, then?" Jauffre demanded, his lips an angry thin line.

"As I said, cross-country! Better safe than sorry."

"Ah yes, because your definition of safety clearly does not entail the absence of man-eating wildlife and random bandit camps..."

"We're just as likely to encounter bandits on the road. Wouldn't it be ironic if, after all the trouble, Martin were killed by a stray arrow?"

"Um, Liallan?" Martin interjected before the Grandmaster could reply. "From what I've gathered, there is a not insignificant risk that the assassins may already know where we're going, a risk high enough to warrant caution. But as Jauffre said, completely restricting our movement to the rough wilderness would slow us down too much for what could be nothing. In light of the circumstances, wouldn't it make sense to keep to the roads for the next few hours but then approach the fort in a more discreet way?"

Liallan processed that idea with a blank expression, while Martin awaited their reaction with the naïve slightly hopeful look of a puppy. She kept her face stiff before a smile could break through; with the discreet glares the Grandmaster had been giving her, grinning like a fool would probably give him cause to execute her on the spot.

"...Huh. That's actually a sound idea," Liallan conceded. "Wouldn't you say so, Grandmaster?"

"...I see nothing wrong with a compromise like that," Jauffre said slowly. "Indeed it may be the best course of action."

"I am glad you both agree," Martin said with that honest smile of his. Naturally, Jauffre was immediately swayed into obedient silence, and even Liallan found herself forgoing any sarcastic comment. She frowned, arriving at the conclusion that disagreeing with Martin now would be like kicking a puppy, which seemed entirely in keeping with his theme. _Damn the little furry mind manipulators._

They rode on in silence, and looking at Grey's dark frame padding ahead of them, Liallan remembered how he had looked as a puppy. She recalled an uneven mass of fluffy ash grey fur and an urge to make noises at a pitch that was several octaves higher than her normal voice.

"But wait, what if they _expect_ us to go cross-country?"

"_Lee!_"

xxx

_All that damn snow...!_ The cloak was sodden, heavy, and completely detrimental to his survival. It hadn't been much of a bargain, anyway. With a hurried gesture he unclasped it and let it slide off.

Geon Woodsley ran through the thick mass of snow with the clumsy, uneven strides of someone not accustomed to the outdoors. His feet felt numb, his breath came in ragged gasps and his calves burned with the effort of trekking through an unforgiving terrain in competition with adversaries who were far more skilled at this game. Quick glances back revealed they were gaining on him, and Geon actually stumbled as terror briefly got the better of him, but quickly regained his pace. Unfortunately, it gave his pursuers just another edge they didn't quite need.

This wasn't anything like he had imagined. Geon could still see the splash of the Nord's blood in the snow in his mind's eye and could still hear his gurgled scream – something that probably shouldn't have bothered him _that_ much, except he was next in line.

Damn that snow! Hindering his footsteps, seemingly clinging to his very shadow to slow him down, crunching as loud as thunder in his ears, now that he was escaping, and yet traitorously swallowing up the soft padding sound of his enemies' approach. Geon was briefly visited by the mental image of Bruma, the snow having turned to grimy water, mixed with the ashes of Oblivion, and the red intruding in that unforgiving blue sky.

The Lord! How he wished for even a few seconds' pause to regain his composure, to heal his wounds and to bind a weapon and a suit of armour. Still, he knew it wouldn't be enough, for an enemy of this multitude. It hadn't done the Nord any good, they'd ripped his throat out all the same, sending him tumbling down the cliffside. If he hadn't fallen, maybe they wouldn't have cared about seeing Geon escape, the bloodthirsty beasts.

The mission was doomed to failure, Geon knew that. The Nord, uncharacteristically sober and keen-eyed, had spotted a group of three approaching Bruma through the snowy wilderness just scant seconds before they'd gone off to alert the others, and that was when disaster had hit. Geon winced, as much from the strain of running as from the idea of what a Daedric Prince of Destruction would do to him for his failure. He _had_ entrusted his soul to the demon, after all. He'd made better decisions in his life.

The others were almost upon him, not just behind him, but all around him as well, and Geon suddenly found himself surrounded. He skidded to a halt, his chest heaving painfully, and his adversaries slowed as well, effectively encircling him to cope with his sudden show of defensiveness. Geon stood still for a moment, swaying as he tried to get enough of his breath back to think. Then, in a breathless cry, he invoked the name of Mehrunes Dagon.

He felt the untapped power, like a fire flooding his veins, a fire that would turn the snow to steam and burn to ashes the savage wolves around him – the Divines only knew what they were doing this far south. He felt the handle of a daedric mace start to fill his hand and impenetrable armour begin forming around him. Springing forward in an inspired effort to turn retreat to victory, Geon swung his mace at one of the huge canines, at the same time releasing a mighty fireball spell at another.

Both easily dodged his attack, and before Geon could even cry an oath, something knocked him hard onto his face, causing him to smash into the snow. His fingers lost his grip on the mace and it vanished like any other false hope the thrice-damned Lord had to offer. Geon tried to rise, to defend himself, but forceful pushes and bites by the wolves kept him sprawled awkwardly in the snow.

Geon gasped and stiffened, a sharp and sudden bolt of pain in his side leaving him breathless. Before he knew it, he was drifting to unconsciousness and lost his grip on the Daedra Prince's blessing.

Geon had only half a moment to wonder what could have pierced his armour before the daedric metal dissipated in a red mist.

_Bloody animals._

That half moment later, blood splashed across the snow and a scream rang over the landscape, only to be cut off abruptly.


	19. Ulterior Motives

".._.I am deeply honoured by your loyalty and hope to prove myself worthy of it_..." And so on, it didn't sound like much but they were clinging to every word. The Hero of Kvatch, however, was not in such high spirits.

The cold chilled her to the bones and it was windy – the kind of wind that brings hard little snowflakes flying like shrapnel into your skin and underneath your eyelashes. When you're on the move, it's a moderate nuisance – or at least, moderate until you try to target someone with a bow and realise you can neither keep your eyes open long enough to focus nor expect the arrow to fly true once you've managed to loose it. Still, the hard part is when you're forced to stand still like this, and are free to indulge your senses by feeling the icy chill of the stony ground pick its way through your boots and into your feet, quickly claiming your numbing toes for its own.

She'd never liked cold. Hot weather was fine - although, with her resilience, that kind of preference was to be expected. Besides, she liked to remain light and agile, and the amount of clothes she'd need to bundle herself in to feel even remotely comfortable in weather like this didn't even bear thinking about.

Her heritage notwithstanding, she'd still pick stifling heat over frostbite any day of the week.

Or at least she would have picked. Earlier. After all, Kvatch had been a very enlightening experience.

Liallan shook herself from her contemplations on the nature of elemental extremes and gave her surroundings a wary look. The cold was distracting, that's for damn sure, but she had bigger worries. She could tell something was wrong. From the grim, uncertain glances she'd seen the others exchanging, to some fairly obvious visual clues, it just put her on edge. Their trip had been relatively uneventful but that had just made her tense in apprehension of the next thing that would go wrong. She tried to recall exactly when she'd become so pessimistic, and concluded that her mindset had been tip-toeing into that area for most of her life.

She also wondered why she even gave a damn and decided she was just bloody altruistic like that.

Liallan squinted up at the building. It was low and wide, constructed in wood in an intricate Akaviri style if she was any judge – which she admittedly wasn't – and the various wings had curved slanting rooftops that looked entirely too fancy to belong to a place that was supposed to be used in very dire circumstances. As far as secret, remote, defensible last-resort safehouses go, Cloud Ruler Temple was lacking in many departments and she became more dissatisfied the longer she looked. She briefly wondered if talking about it to Jauffre would yield any results, then remembered what the old Blade had said of the place hours yearlier. It 'wasn't supposed to be secret'.... Its virtue lay in the loyal men and women standing ready at beck and call. She supposed they looked capable enough, but the sparseness of their ranks left her unimpressed. Besides, if they spent all their time guarding a place that probably hadn't been truly used in decades, they couldn't have all that much combat experience.

There was a faint shift in the mood and some cheering. Liallan snapped to attention, realising it was over. She watched the Blades salute as one and then disperse, returning to their posts – a few unfortunate ones on the walls, but most of them filed through the double doors of the building with just the kind of haste that could still be interpreted as enthusiastic briskness rather than scrambling to get out of the cold.

"It wasn't much of a speech, was it?"

Liallan turned to see Martin next to her, with that apologetic half-smile on his face.

"It was short and to the point," Liallan shrugged. "I doubt any of them will resent you for not making them stand out here in heavy armour while you spill your guts to them about your fuzzy little feelings. They probably thought the brevity a refreshing change."

Martin chuckled hesitantly, glancing at the Blades. A female member standing guard at a doorway caught his eye and snapped off a hasty salute. Martin gave a jerky nod, then hurriedly looked away.

Despite herself, Liallan grunted in amusement. She gave Martin a smile that she hoped looked encouraging, though she suspected that it just made her look sleepy. "Don't worry..." she said. "You'll probably have some time to practice your speeches before you're crowned. And even then, your lackeys will handle most of the pretty talk."

"But I don't need..." Martin frowned slightly, then gave a heavy sigh. "That's not it, Liallan... I've been a priest for years, dealing with people is nothing new and neither is giving speeches. It's just..." Martin hesitated and Liallan closed her eyes for a moment, then shifted her weight impatiently. "...It doesn't feel right," He shrugged. "After everything that's happened..." He added, almost to himself.

Liallan sighed and then cut in briskly. "After everything that's happened, we have enough things to deal with. Your Blades need to find out who the people were that attacked you. Among other things."

"Yes – about that..."

"Huh? What is it?"

The priest looked at her with those staggeringly blue eyes, smiling slightly. Liallan stared back somewhat suspiciously, somewhat irritated that he didn't seem to be in a hurry to get out of the cold, and wondered if his mother had been a Nord.

"I simply wished to thank you for everything you've done. I'd have died several times during the past few days if it hadn't been for you, the Gate at Kvatch would still be standing and Akatosh knows how many others would have been killed. I am deeply grateful, my friend."

"Ummm...." Liallan stared at him blankly. "You seem to have forgotten that Jauffre literally blackmailed me into this, but... you're welcome, I suppose." She tried to think of something else to reply but just added hastily "In any case, it's cold and we really should get inside, where it's, uh, warm. Besides, we need to decide whatever the hell needs to be done right now. Or actually... Either way, inside."

She gave the would-be Emperor a tug on the sleeve and strode towards the double doors of the main building. "Heel, boy," she muttered, briefly slapping her thigh. Grey obligingly fell in step behind her. So did Martin, though that was probably a coincidence.

Passing the female guard, Liallan pushed open the doors and slipped through. She sighed in relief and rubbed her arms as a wave of pleasant warmth hit her, then halted in awe as she looked around.

The hall was large and somewhat dusty, with several large tables in the centre and what looked like small shrines positioned along the walls. She could see a large fireplace in the wall opposite of the entrance and dozens of candles lining the shrines and collected in small clusters on the tables. A feeling of something ancient, cherished and antique hung in the air like a cloud, and despite herself, Liallan found her respect for the stronghold of the Blades leaping up several notches.

Looking up, she beheld a sight even more stunning. Hung on arched beams reaching through the room were dozens of blades, point-down - the realization made her flinch momentarily. They were intricate Akaviri katanas, many of them worn with use and more than a few broken or otherwise damaged. The cold afternoon light filtering sideways through the windows and the doorway behind her and the golden flames from below cast contrasting highlights onto the metal edges, transforming this exhibition of weaponry into a dazzling display of twinkling sparks.

Liallan closed her mouth. Any criticism of this little lovenest would have to be phrased very constructively indeed.

She suddenly wondered if the katana of the fallen Captain, Renault, was also here, and what had happened to Baurus. Realistically, though, the questions weren't hard to answer with 'lost' and 'cut to pieces by the freaks'. That thought brought her mind speeding back to present events and to what needed to be done. As Grey brushed past her, padding towards the fireplace at the other end of the hall, a draft prickled at the back of her neck. Turning around in annoyance Liallan saw Martin still standing awed in front of the gaping entrance, snowflakes drifting past him into the room and the gusts of icy wind making the candleflames sway and tremble in distress. Liallan shook her head, moved past the priest and pulled the doors closed with a dull thud.

A wide-eyed Martin turned to look at her. "It's glorious," he breathed, his voice so full of good-natured sincerity that she had to grimace.

"Uh, yes," she agreed, moving closer to the fireplace to warm herself. "Unfortunately, swords and candles won't keep the assassins from reaching you – or at least the candles won't - and you'll probably need to make some changes here before it's anywhere close to safe. Now where's Jauffre? I have a few words to say to him about the defensibility of this paperhouse."

"Try to be tactful," Martin said with a pained smile.

"Hey, I'm not _that_ bad. What's the point, though? I can tell he doesn't like me." Rubbing her arms in the soothing heat of the fire, Liallan gave a derisive shrug. "Dressing up my words won't really change what I'm saying and his opinion isn't likely to change if I happen to use 'insufficient' instead of 'where are the bloody defences'."

"In that, my friend, I have to disagree," Martin said. "The facts remain such regardless of how you express them, but the way you phrase them shows either respect or lack of it and can go a long way towards changing one's opinion of you. Even if you're telling the undeniable truth, people will be reluctant to agree with you if they perceive your tone to indicate disrespect. And, as it happens, do not take it personally when I say you often fail to present your ideas respectfully."

"See?" Liallan chuckled. "What you're trying to say is 'you need to change your attitude and stop acting like a bitch to everyone around you'." Seeing Martin's shocked expression, she added, "At least, that's what you really mean."

"Please, Lee! We are, after all, in a temple." Martin shook his head wearily. "That is _not_ what I meant to say. I do not think of you that way and I would never say that. And in any case... do you not think that people will listen more if you show respect for them?"

"By dressing up words? Not as such. Sometimes the bare truth is far more effective than endlessly beating around the bush. And if someone chooses to be honest with me, I might appreciate it more than if they were terribly concerned about hurting my oh-so-sensitive feelings."

"Yes, but what you mean here isn't honesty – it's phrasing things in as offensive a manner as possible. There are a few who might appreciate it but most will just be offended."

"That can't be any worse than the number of people who just won't take you seriously enough if your words lack the bit of punch to get through their thick skulls."

"That is a very cynical outlook, Liallan."  
"It's not cynical, it's just the way it is. Just like the nobles in the Council who regularly use your 'respectful phrasing' as a manipulation tactic to keep the others from getting riled up at their outrageous suggestions. Or orators who tell crowds exactly what they should think. Fact is, they're still using your fancy words to influence people. Or would you say it doesn't happen?"

"That's..." Martin hesitated, staring into the fire with a frown on his face. "Yes, but it can also be used for a good cause-"

"Oh, undoubtedly."

"...In any case, I assure you I only meant with respect what I said earlier, and wasn't trying to, uh..."

"What? Of course not, Martin," Liallan snorted, shaking her head."Don't make me laugh, you don't have a manipulative bone in your body. You mean everything you say. It's unbelievable, really."

"That..." Martin gave her another pained smile. "Uh, thank you, my friend. Still, could you at least try to take more care when dealing with Jauffre?"

"Whatever you say, I just don't see how it will change anything. But yes, I'll try to stay civil," Liallan agreed.  
The room fell silent save for the crackling fire. She glanced at Grey, who was stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace, eyes closed appreciatively. He wouldn't like what came next, this place was far too warm and pleasant to leave in a hurry.

"Well... you probably ought to get someone to show you around," she said to Martin.

"Oh, I will," he nodded absent-mindedly.

"So you know where all the hiding places are, and all that."

"Yes."

"And I suppose I better go speak to Jauffre..."

"Wouldn't it be better to wait? He is surely busy enough right now. We just came back," Martin noted. "Besides, a night's rest would do both of you good."

Liallan frowned and braced herself for the display of sad puppy eyes that was bound to follow.

"I, uh, I won't be sticking around that long."

"What do you mean?" Martin turned to look at her and.... _Yup, there they are. _Liallan wondered why arguing with him made her feel so damn guilty. _Must be a Dragonborn thing._

"I'm leaving. I did what I had to but I don't want to get myself any deeper into this than I already am. I don't like dealing with cults, for one thing, and Daedric cults are my least favourite kind."

"But... Then why come here? Why worry so much about how well this temple is defended?"

"Because that's as far as I was willing to go, obviously," Liallan sighed in exasperation. "You _are_ the future Emperor, after all, so I might as well help while I'm here. I just won't be here much longer."

Martin's face displayed a sort of expectant puzzlement. Liallan turned to look back at the fire, took a deep breath, then slowly continued,

"Look... I agreed to fetch you from Kvatch and deliver you to Jauffre in good health. I did that. I even escorted you all the way to here because assassins were still threatening you and I'd hate for all that Gate-hopping to have been for nothing. But you're safe now if this fortress is even half as secure as Jauffre thinks it is. I'm not really obligated to do anything else. If I stay here and continue to worry about every shadow you turn your back on, at some point I'll just become an Imperial lackey and no offense to all the lackeys here, but I just didn't sign up for that." Liallan glanced back at Martin and saw him listening contemplatively with a sincerely understanding expression. When the priest didn't answer, Liallan added, "I just want to be very clear on this... you're a very nice person from what I can tell and I wish you the best of luck, but I do NOT want to serve as your bodyguard, nor do I want to be in the middle of any other disasters that might happen before you're crowned. I'm sorry if this destroys any illusions you had about me being a hero but back in Kvatch I just had no other options. So I'd rather just get out of here before the Grandmaster or, Gods forbid, the future Emperor have a chance to _order_ me to do anything."

"I wouldn't do that," Martin said firmly.

"Actually... - _after_ I've left - you should probably get used to giving orders that might change someone's life if it's necessary for the Empire. Otherwise you'll make a lousy Emperor. So yeah, you'll learn, but if you don't mind, I'd just as rather get out of your sight before you get _that_ little epiphany."

Martin nodded, his expression solemn. "I understand," he said, and Liallan nearly rolled her eyes. "I wish you would stay, but it is not my place to decide what you should do from now on."

"Except that it _is_. Since you're, you know, the future Emperor."

"I wish you would stop reminding me." Martin closed his eyes, wincing slightly. "As I said before, I am deeply grateful for your assistance... When are you leaving?"

"As soon as possible. I'll just have a word with Jauffre about this place and then I'll be off. No sense in waiting."

"I see. Maybe we can get you a reward gathered for your help...."

"That would be very _generous_ of you, Martin, but now of all times won't you kind of need the gold?"

He chuckled. "You are probably correct. Maybe something else, then... The Blades are sure to have a few items lying around that someone like you can use. You _will_ stay long enough to have a look, won't you?"

"Uh, I suppose."

"That will do, Lee."

"Well, you got it right a minute ago, I suppose twice would be too much to ask for..." Liallan muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind." she sighed. "Why are you so anxious to have me stay, anyway?"

"I'd rather keep what friends I find than have them disappear into the background. Besides, it is never a bad idea to have someone as capable as you on your side in such things."

"So I guess it's not my amicable attitude that makes me so hard to part with..."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, don't be. Let's go find Jauffre."

Deciding to leave Grey in his cozy spot by the fire for now, Liallan turned and approached a Blade standing guard at a door. The Emperor followed.

xxx

"_Dead?_"

Captain Steffan nodded. Jauffre grimaced and wearily laid a hand over his eyes, motioning the Blade to continue. "It can only be assumed so. We have few confirmed deaths, but they have all conspicuously failed to report. I suppose it is possible that those missing in action have all been captured and are held prisoner somewhere, but for our present situation it makes little difference if they are dead or alive at this point. "

Jauffre sighed, leaning back in his seat. "When did this happen?"

"Within several days of the Emperor's death. For obvious reasons, it's hard to pinpoint."

"I see. And you said the other safehouses..."

"Are... out of service, yes."

Jauffre gave an incredulous chuckle, shaking his head bitterly. "That's a damned fine euphemism for saying we lost most of our men within several days... What exactly happened?"

"For the larger ones in Anvil, Leyawiin and in the Nibenay Basin, poison. Some kind of slow-acting one, applied a short time before the attack on the Emperor. Many of them must have fallen to it on the road after they were called in for reinforcements. Those that survived report that the symptoms were more akin to those of an illness. They initially believed it was some kind of plague or perhaps an epidemic."

"They have priests. Didn't they think it could be poison if a spell for curing diseases did nothing?" Jauffre asked irritably.

"Aye, that they did and many were able to be cured. But it seems whatever poison befell our men was resistant to the priests' attempts to purge it. Not all who were healed managed to recover. And as I already said, by the time the symptoms broke many had been called in and were presumably unable to reach a healer in time."

"Talos preserve us," Jauffre muttered. "What about the smaller safehouses? The informants? A mass poisoning couldn't have worked there."

"They were attacked and overwhelmed through surprise and strength of numbers, it seems. Many were ambushed."

"By whom?"

"In all reports that we have, the description of the culprits coincides with that of the Emperor's slayers – burgundy red robes and bindings of full-body Daedric armour."

"There's nothing coincidental about that," Jauffre noted bitterly. "However..." he sighed. "It _does_ make things more simple. At least in this case we can assume that the men... by Talos, the wretched_ beasts_ who eliminated our agents belong to the same group that attacked the palace that day, rather than to a different conspiracy against us."  
"How are we to replace our lost men, Grandmaster?"

"That would depend on how the situation is outside of Cyrodiil. Have you tried contacting our spymasters there?"

"We have yet to receive their reports of the events following the Emperor's death, but I did send messages to them yesterday telling them to deploy any men they can spare."

"What they can spare won't be enough," Jauffre said. "The power of the Blades here in Cyrodiil – the _capital_ of the Empire – is practically diminished. We will need a large influx of agents if we're to be up to the challenges this new enemy brings."

"Very well, I will send new messages with the orders to-"

"Hold on there," Jauffre shook his head, interrupting with a gesture. "Our agents outside of Cyrodiil may very well be stretched thin themselves. The Emperor's death is already causing huge political consequences. High Rock, Morrowind... If we let our grasp there falter at this time, we might lose it altogether. No, what we are looking for are new recruits."  
"Is that wise, Grandmaster? We have yet to discover how the enemy managed to infiltrate so thoroughly into our Order."

"I know, I'm working on that," Jauffre sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Orders, Grandmaster?"

Jauffre nodded. "Contact the High Chancellor. Demand that some of the Legion be enlisted into the service of the Blades – we are looking for intelligent and loyal men who have been in the Legion at least four years – no, make that three - rather than just bruisers. No, belay that. I shall handle this personally," Jauffre said, reaching for his quill. "Ocato won't be happy, but right now we need those men more than the Legion does. For now this will have to do..." he muttered, the inky quill scratching the paper as he wrote. "We can worry about obtaining skilled spies for our cause later..."

"And what about the Hero of Kvatch - the dark elf?"

Jauffre's hand froze. Frowning, he looked up at the Captain thoughtfully. "Liallan Fenneset. Remember that name, Captain, and go see if our archives have anything on her. She's a Dunmer, so there ought to be at least a passing mention. But first of all, find her and bring her here. I would... speak with her."

Captain Steffan nodded in acknowledgement and made for the exit. Sliding open the door, he was about to step through but hesitated.

"What is it now?" Jauffre asked.

"Grandmaster, it appears she's already here."

"Well, speak of the devil..." Jauffre muttered to himself. Meanwhile, he heard the guard outside the door shift his weight imposingly over the entrance and say,

"You are not permitted here right now. The Grandmaster is busy reviewing the... oh.... I beg your pardon, Your Highness, I did not see you there. I shall go ask the Grandmaster-"

"Let them in," Jauffre called out, frowning. "Captain, linger here a moment."

Steffan nodded and re-entered the room then halted to stand near the entrance. Jauffre nodded with silent approval. A moment later Martin and the Dunmer entered, the latter quickly scanning the room with her usual shifty and self-assured gaze.

"Jauffre, I wanted to talk to you about the defences here..." she began.

"Good, I was just looking to have a word with you myself," Jauffre nodded. Then he looked at the former priest, "In the meantime, Your Highness should get acquianted with the layout of our haven. Captain Steffan, fetch one of the Blades to give the royal heir a tour."

"Actually, I would prefer to stay here for the moment," Martin interjected. "I am much interested in your discussion about how to improve the defences here." He gave a tentative smile. "I reckon if I am to be Emperor I should get into the habit of keeping up with new developments around me... And please, call me Martin. I'm not Emperor yet," he added quietly. The Dunmer beside him smiled slightly at that.

Jauffre gave a reluctant nod. "Most commendable. Very well. Martin, please, have a seat," he said, motioning towards the single chair positioned in front of his desk.

Liallan tensed slightly, a barely noticeable shifting of muscles as she looked at Jauffre, who stared squarely back. Martin looked at the chair, shot a furtive glance at Liallan and then noticed the other chair half-hidden in the corner. He casually dragged it over beside the other one, settled into it and motioned at the free one to the Dunmer.

"Most gracious of you, Your Highness," she grinned briefly, sitting down, then gave a pointed look at Jauffre. Although Martin had just demonstrated chivalry at its finest, the Grandmaster found it difficult to approve of the future Emperor obviously enjoying such good relations with that smug pointy-eared snake.

"Very well," he said. "I think it best if we first get your own inquiries out of the way. What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Liallan?"

"As I said, the defences of Cloud Ruler Temple. Your fortress. As a safe haven for the last living Dragonborn it seems to have quite a few shortcomings."

"Of which you're eager to tell me, no doubt," Jauffre grunted. "Let me ask you something first. Why are you trying so hard to ensure the best defences for Martin?"

"Because I can, mostly. It doesn't cost me anything to sit down and talk to you before I leave, so I might as well tell you what I think of this. I _did_ go through a whole heap of trouble to keep Martin alive, after all."

"Before you lea-... Ah, yes. Well, you certainly have a high opinion of your own ability to assess the situation, I'll give you that. Very well. Exactly what shortcomings were you referring to?"

"Well, for one thing, the wind protection is abysmal."

Martin chuckled at that and Liallan predictably looked offended. "I'm serious! Your sentries are standing out there on naked walls while being assaulted by every wind imaginable, including the icy ones from Skyrim! That's not just harmful to their health, it impairs their ability to effectively watch out for enemies. That is ridiculous. There are plenty of structures that allow protection from the elements while maintaining visibility."

"Objection noted. Continue."

"How well-supplied are you here?"

"Why do you want to know?"

She gave a derisive laugh. "It doesn't matter to _me_, I'm not the one who may potentially get besieged at this place. The point is, you can't fend for yourselves. You do not have any kind of livestock or crops up here inside the walls, from what I've seen at least. I'm bringing this up because if an army comes marching up to your doorstep and tries to starve you, you're pretty much done for."

"What army? What are you trying to say?" Jauffre demanded.

"How should I know what army? All I know is what anyone with half a brain would see – the Emperor and his three official heirs are dead, this makes for a politically touchy situation. Even assuming our Daedra-hugging enemies are not quite that numerous, who knows what kind of people will start wanting Martin dead during the time he's holed up in here?"

"I see. Is there anything else?"

"Well, yeah! I know you say the point was in being inaccessible rather than secret, but this is ridiculous! Any hope you have of someone down in Bruma _not _knowing that they're living next to a stronghold of the Blades clearly relies on the idea that everyone just walks around with their eyes _downcast_ staring at the _dirt_ rather than _actually having a shred of_-"

"Lee, _please_," Martin murmured.

"_Right_," Liallan rolled her eyes. "Well... It's just the fact that this place is settled on a mountain and can be seen from miles away on a clear day. And pretty much anyone in Bruma, for that matter. It isn't hard to find, so I'm curious as to how exactly you think Martin is supposed to be safe here."

"Much better," Martin smiled.

Jauffre raised an eyebrow at the cryptic comment, then shrugged it off. "Is that all?"

"I suppose so. I'm sure I could find a few other things to nitpick about if I stayed to poke around a bit longer..."

"Ah, yes, that. You mentioned you were planning on leaving?"

"I was. Am."

"When, if I may ask?"

"As soon as possible. I was just going to stay until... Well, Martin said..."

"I said that we should try to get some sort of reward organised for her troubles. If not gold, then valuable equipment should be enough."

"I see," Jauffre said. "Well, you are correct. A reward would be in order. But why exactly are you in such a hurry to leave us?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Liallan asked. "The way I see it, I've done everything you asked of me and gone beyond that. There's no reason for me to stay."

"No reason? You could gain much in the service of the Empire. You are shrewd enough to understand that."

"Thanks, but I'm also foolish enough to do what I like rather than what's best for me, and I like the 'freelance' part of my job description very much. Besides, I'm not an idealist and this... Well... Don't take it the wrong way when I say that this isn't a good day to take up the cause of the Septims."  
"It's a bit too late for that..." Jauffre muttered.

"...In short, you'll have to find someone else for however you're planning to deal with this."

"I understand," Jauffre said. Indeed, he understood very well. "Steffan, get three of our men in here, if you please." The Captain nodded and promptly left the room.

"What for?" Liallan looked at him suspiciously.

"It is relevant for our next topic of discussion," Jauffre said as Steffan returned with three more Blades behind him. "Your Highness, come over here, please. As future Emperor, there is something you must see," Jauffre added, pulling open one of the drawers and pretending to rummage in it while watching the Dunmer out of the corner of his eye. Liallan was now practically surrounded by four Blades, with the Emperor well out of her reach as he walked over to stand beside Jauffre. Her face and the way she shifted in her seat showed that she hadn't quite missed that aspect of the situation. It would be best not to tarry.

"What is it, Jauffre?"

The Grandmaster looked up into Martin's tanned face. Closing the drawer again, he rose. "It is nothing, not at the moment at least. I simply wanted to avoid any potential hostage situations. Seize her."

"_What?!_"

With a cry of protest, the Dunmer was about to jump up from her seat, but heavy hands and the steel of several rapidly-drawn katanas at her throat restrained her before she could move an inch. A moment later one of the Blades had removed her weapons and was already busy with a rope. Her expression was one of incredulous outrage as she momentarily struggled against her captors until one of them promptly pressed a dagger to the underside of her jaw, at which point she proceeded to simply glare at the Grandmaster instead.

"Jauffre!" An angry voice resounded beside him. Turning, he beheld an infuriated Martin. Jauffre sighed. "Take her downstairs and lock her in the dungeon," he said to Steffan. "Remove her armour and have her possessions searched thoroughly. She is a cunning one, make sure that at least two of you are holding her at sword point at all times. Go."

"No, stop this!" Martin's voice halted the Blades' movement before they could budge. With some confusion, they glanced at the future Emperor, then at Jauffre. He couldn't blame them for the uncertainty. Most of them had never experienced this kind of dissonance between Emperor and Grandmaster; it had, after all, been years since the late Uriel had displayed this kind of initiative.

"Jauffre, I demand you explain what you are doing," Martin said. After his consistent softness and diplomacy earlier, the iron-hard note of command in his voice surprised him.

"Your Highness, there is little to explain," Jauffre said wearily. "I am taking a spy into custody."

"I disagree. There is very much to explain. You could explain how you came to that conclusion, for a start."

"It is simple. Liallan was the only other person beside myself who knew for sure that the Amulet of Kings had passed into my hands. The only other person who knew that the Amulet would be heading to Weynon Priory in the first place is or was a Blade and his allegiance is assumed to be far less suspect than that of this dark elf. Therefore, your Hero of Kvatch here is very likely to have betrayed us all to the people who killed your father and who are plotting your own demise even as you stand here and defend her."

"But that makes no sense! If Liallan had been working for them the whole time, why would she have killed so many of them? Why would she have saved us and destroyed the Oblivion Gate?"

"Your Highness, just because we seem to be dealing with bloodthirsty cultists does not mean they are above calculated acts of heroism. For one thing, if Liallan is one of them, she would have been ideally positioned to destroy that Gate – or is it not peculiarly convenient that she managed to do so when a score of trained Imperial guards failed miserably? Her subsequent confrontations with the assassins certainly helped her get on your good side, didn't they? There is any number of reasons an enemy might want one of their own to be close to the Emperor."

"And in this _fantasy_ of yours," the Dunmer said, wincing at the blade still pressed to her throat, "if I wanted to get close to the Emperor, why would I leave now after getting Martin here?"

"I should like _you_ to tell me that," Jauffre replied.

"For what it's worth, I rescued one of the Kvatch guards. We closed the Gate together. He can confirm to you that neither of us had an easy time there."

"Then he will have to, though whether or not you had an easy time is irrelevant, what matters is that you succeeded. Who is he?'

"Menien Goneld, a student of Conjuration at the Magician's Guild in Kvatch."

"_Conjuration_? I see."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" the Dunmer exclaimed. "Now you're suspecting _him_ because he happens to study one of the perfectly _legitimate_ magic schools here in Cyrodiil?!"

"I agree, Jauffre. This is ludicrous. You're grasping at straws now."

"With due respect, Your Highness, I am simply acting in accordance with the risks that present themselves." Turning to the Dunmer, he said, "Whether we will believe him or not remains to be seen. Either way, we will need time to ascertain your integrity and out of the risk of our suspicions proving correct, you cannot be allowed to roam free during that time. You will remain in custody until we are certain that you are no spy."

"And how will you become certain of _that_?"

"I will not permit her to be harmed," Martin said, his expression hard. Jauffre sighed in exasperation, turning to him.

"Your Highness, you have to accept the possibility that Liallan is not who she led you to believe she was."

"I know who she is. She is my friend."

"Or perhaps she is simply someone who uses your confidence and trust in her for her own purposes - and apparently not without success." Seeing Martin's expression, Jauffre added solemnly, "Your Highness, I am Grandmaster of the Blades. It is my duty to keep you safe and deal with threats to the Empire accordingly. If you will not allow me to fulfill that duty you are welcome to take my place and try your own hand at this, but your own area of expertise is vastly different and your lack of experience would make it ill-advised. In short, you shall have to trust my judgement or disregard it and hope that your own is up to the challenge."

"Says the man who failed to prevent the deaths of four Dragonborn in one day..." the Dunmer muttered, meeting squarely Jauffre's contemptuous glare.

"Lee, please! You are not exactly helping your case here."

"Because I reminded everyone of what happened? _Think_, Martin! If they already knew all about where to find you, I don't see why I'm the one being pointed fingers at if it turns out that, _surprise_, they may have known something else too."

"That does not absolve you of the suspicion," Jauffre said.

"Yeah, probably not in your book."

"Jauffre, she has a point," Martin said. "Now of all times we need what friends and allies we can find rather than alienate them with desperate suspicions."

"If our recent tragedy has taught me anything, Highness, it is that perhaps we have not been choosing our friends carefully enough. I am attempting to do precisely that. Now will you allow me or do you see yourself as better suited for the role of Grandmaster of the Blades?"

Martin looked back at him contemplatively, then glanced at the Dunmer, who gave him a bitter smile and what might have been a shrug if the multiple hands holding her still hadn't suppressed it.

The heir and the Dunmer were in this together – against _him_. The sudden realization was astonishing. He remembered the long ride to Kvatch at night with the illegitimate baby in tow, sparkling blue eyes shut in obliviously content sleep. It seemed unbelievable that now, over thirty years later, that illegitimate child would rather side with an ashen-skinned trickster whom he'd known for hours than with him.

His blue eyes glancing worriedly once more at the Dunmer, Martin spoke. "I shall leave you to your devices in this, but she is _not_ to be harmed. She is to be treated well... guest rather than prisoner. I shall personally oversee that those conditions are met."

"As you command, Your Highness," Jauffre said. "Take her away," he added to the Blades.

As she was led away, the Dunmer shot him a faintly triumphant look. Jauffre glared back, then realised that Martin was also about the leave the room. The former priest hesitated and said to Jauffre, "We shall speak more later."

"As you wish... Martin."

He nodded and walked out the door, sliding it shut behind him.

Left alone in his study, Jauffre stared at the door for a few moments. Then he picked up his quill and continued his letter to Ocato. Sighing heavily, Jauffre reduced his requirement for prior experience in the army to two years. He then crossed it over and crumpled the sheet.

He drew a fresh one.

XXX

"I am deeply sorry for this, my friend," Martin said. Frowning, he looked at the bars and the Dunmer's slight figure settled against the back wall. This was hardly accommodating, but holding her captive in one of the wood-walled rooms upstairs would defeat the purpose, he mused.

"Yes, well, no good deed goes unpunished. You know how it is," she shrugged. Martin merely shook his head, his expression troubled. Meanwhile, Lee continued. "Frankly, though... His reasoning was actually rather sound. Most people with common sense would feel at least a shadow of a doubt at this point. I'm not sure I approve of you unflinchingly standing up for me like that."

"Perhaps, but most people with common sense would not let their friends be mistreated based on just a shadow of a doubt, either."

"Is that supposed to mean there _is _doubt, then?' she glanced sideways at him.

Martin smiled. "Lee, my friend... There is a reason I keep calling you that, you know. You have saved my life far too many times for me to doubt you just because of some unfortunate circumstances. I trust you, and should I ever come to regret it, at least I'll be at peace with myself for not hurting others out of paranoia."

Looking at him, Lee said nothing. Finally, she gave him a tentative smile.

"Thanks," she said.

XXX

The door slid back open and Jauffre looked up to see Steffan returning to his study. Meeting the Breton's gaze, Steffan nodded.

"She's in the cell and her equipment is being studied as we speak. Further orders?"

"Contact what spymasters we still have and see what they know of her. In _addition_ to the browsing through the archives I mentioned earlier. I want to know who she is and how she's been filling her extensive lifespan up till now."

"Grandmaster... You do realise that this investigation is unlikely to paint her in a favourable light?"

"I know that – it's obvious what kind of person she is. I don't doubt we'll find many instances of her having been on the wrong side of the law. That doesn't mean the search won't turn up anything else that could be useful."

"Useful? What exactly are you looking for?"

"Associations with Daedra, for one thing."

"Grandmaster, she's a Dunmer."

"Obviously."

"Are you saying there is a possibility that she has _not_ had dealings with Daedra worshippers?"

"I'll be interested in hearing what kind of dealings. But yes, Captain. For the most part, I am looking for something to hold over her, coerce her into submitting to a sort of work release programme."

"You want to _hire_ her?"

"For one thing, it is precisely what she _didn't_ want, so it is unlikely to be accounted for in any plan she might have had. It should also both test her loyalties and direct her cunning to be used in our cause."

"Very well, Grandmaster," Captain Steffan chuckled. "But forgive me if I shall forgo volunteering to explain all that to her."

Jauffre nodded as he shuffled through the papers spread on his desk. A moment later, Steffan added. "There is something else. On my way back up here I caught a messenger arrive." He approached Jauffre, handing him a sealed envelope.

Jauffre examined the seal, then proceeded to break it. Studying the paper, Jauffre breathed a sigh of relief. The report itself would take time to decode, but the signature at the bottom was one he knew well and was glad to see.

"Grandmaster?"

Jauffre looked up and gave a weary smile. "Word from Baurus, finally."

"He's alive?" Jauffre nodded and Steffan smiled as well. "Some luck at last. He has probably been in the City all this time. This should make things easier. With any luck he'll be able to shed some light on what has happened."

"With luck," Jauffre agreed, nodding to himself.

"Grandmaster?"

"Yes?"

"I... The Dunmer. She's not wrong. If the enemy could ambush and kill so many of our agents and successfully infiltrated so many bases, blaming the Hero of Kvatch of all people seems like a stretch. Do we even need to go through this elaborate scheme of testing her mettle?"

"Have you had problems here, Captain?"

"Problems, Grandmaster?"

"With poison."

"No, sir."

"And what do you make of that? That Cloud Ruler Temple of all places remains unaffected?"

"I am not certain what it means."

"Well I _am_ certain. Either our enemy has been sloppy and we have been lucky, that's one explanation. Or our enemy now has us exactly where we're wanted. For all our sakes I hope it's the former but I'm not wiling to let _anyone_ off the hook just yet."

"Understood, Grandmaster."


	20. The Dangers of Common Sense

Martin hurriedly ascended the stairs two and three steps at a time, the hem of his priest robes brushing the wood as he moved – he wasn't quite prepared to start wearing any of the extravagant Emperor outfits he had discovered in his wardrobe. Reaching the top, he halted at the sight of the Blade standing guard outside it, who immediately straightened up, his hand rising in a hasty salute.

"Good morning, Your Highness!"

"Uh, yes, to you as well... Pelagius." The former priest responded with some uncertainty. "Is Jauffre inside?"

"Yes, sir. He is currently drinking his morning tea."

"Well, that is... good to know," Martin sighed, stepping forward to knock, his knuckles making a hollow sound against the wooden panel. "And I really must insist that you call me Martin," he added to the Blade.

"As you command, Your Highness," Pelagius nodded with a slightly unsettled look.

Suddenly the door slid open and Jauffre's wrinkled face peered through.

"Martin," he said curtly, "come inside."

Closing the door behind him, Martin settled in a chair while Jauffre returned to his seat at his desk.

"You are up early. Were the accommodations lacking in quality?"

"_Jauffre,_" Martin said with somewhat more force than he had intended. "The accommodations are fine, you know full well that that is not what I am here about."

"Have some tea," Jauffre offered, reaching into a cupboard behind him for a large mug.

"Where is Liallan?" Martin demanded, watching as Jauffre lifted the ornate teapot from the platter on his desk and poured the contents into the empty mug. "Her cell is empty, but the wolf is locked in the one next to it. What have you done to her?"

"She has been released."

"What? Released?" Martin repeated in surprise, frowning suspiciously at the full mug of tea Jauffre had set on the table before him. He found himself suddenly very irritated with the Grandmaster's answers. By Akatosh, if her being released was meant from a metaphysical perspective of any sort... "Speak plainly, Jauffre, _please_. Where is she?"

"Currently? I am uncertain, though I surmise it to be somewhere between here and the Imperial City at this point. Perhaps she has even reached it already."

"You actually let her go?" Martin stammered. "_Why_? What could possibly happen during the night that would change your opinion?" For a moment he reconsidered how that question actually _sounded_, and shook his head at the ridiculous idea. Then something else occurred to him. "If you have let her go, why is her wolf still in your custody?"

Martin waited for an answer as Jauffre took a long drink from his own mug – not sipping, but actually tilting his head up and taking a few solid gulps, drinking like the soldier he was. Setting it down, he regarded Martin with the same shrewd gaze and began speaking.

"Her animal is still there, Martin, because my opinion of her did _not_ change significantly during the night. However, the situation _did_. Yesterday evening I received word from one of our few surviving agents in the Imperial City..."

"_Surviving..._?"

"I will expand on that later. What matters is that he is in need of assistance and the Blades are stretched rather thin at the moment. So I have sent her to make herself useful. As for the wolf... seeing as she actually seems to care for that beast, I kept it here to increase the chances of her coming back."

Martin frowned. "In other words, you are holding her canine companion hostage to force her to serve you."

"To serve _you_, Martin. It is your cause and the cause of all the Empire that I am attempting to advance here and I have to work with the tools I've been given."

"We didn't need to coerce her into submission."

"As she was apparently planning to disappear before I arrested her, in spite of your good relations with her, I am afraid I do not see what you are talking about."

Martin shook his head, perplexed. "I thought you did not trust her, and yet here you are sending her on missions."

"It is not so simple, Martin. I do no trust her enough to fully let her out of my sight – that does not mean that I am not willing to use her. On the other hand, I fail to come up with favourable explanations for why _you_ would be so interested in her, so much that you apparently went to check up on her first thing after getting out of bed. Why do you show such concern for a Dunmer stranger?"

"She _saved my life_! And not only mine – every single person who survived to leave that chapel in Kvatch owes it to her bravery and courage, for going into that Oblivion gate in spite of the danger!"

"The danger? Martin, you insist on blindly ignoring all evidence! It is _staggeringly_ improbable that a lone woman with _no_ special preparation or training for the task could survive a lengthy trip to a part of the Daedric plane of Oblivion – and not only survive, but succeed in fighting her way through to whatever was needed to get it closed again. Especially when hardened veterans of the Watch had already failed. The more likely explanation is that she was with the assassins all along and was provided with a means to close it by the same fanatics that opened it, thus allowing her to pull off her heroic miracle rescue without a hitch and become a revered hero in the process."

"So you insist that she is a spy based merely on how _improbable_ her success was? By your logic, every great hero in history must have been secretly working with the people they defeated one way or another!"

"No, Martin. Were it merely the incident with the Gate, I would be more than happy to take your version of events at face value, chalk her success up to a combination of skill and sheer luck and hail her as a hero. However, what happened to the Amulet casts her in a very unfavourable light. Only she could have told the assassins were it was, no doubt on her way to deliver it."

"Only she? I recall you mentioning something about a second person, a Blade."

"And I recall replying that a Dunmer stranger whom we only know as an escaped _convict_ and who has a great deal of other factors arguing against her is a far more likely candidate for a spy than one of our own who has proven his mettle many times over."

"In other words, you accuse her because your own men are beyond reproach? Is that not the kind of thinking that allowed this tragedy to occur, in the first place?"

"By Talos, Martin, you are beginning to sound just like her," Jauffre replied irritably, setting down his mug of tea with a thud, causing the liquid to splash up at the edges. "It is simply a matter of logic. She is a highly suspicious individual, therefore she is being investigated before anyone else."

"Jauffre, I'm afraid I remain unconvinced of what it is that is so suspicious about her. The assassins already knew so much about us, enough to kill the three heirs – my... my _brothers_ – long before Lee ran into the late Emperor. They likely became aware of the Priory's location and importance the same way they were already aware of everything else. Lee already said this yesterday, and she's _right_, Jauffre!"

"That argument does not work as well for her as she thinks it does," Jauffre replied, eyebrows knitting together. He glanced at the empty mug and set it down before leaning forward. "Consider _this_, future Emperor. Uriel and his three legitimate heirs were killed practically within minutes of one another, yet the attempt on _your_ life did not occur until more than a full day later. The assassins are clearly interested in your death, so what is the most probable explanation for them failing to strike at the same time they struck against your relatives?"

"There could be a number of reasons," Martin said. "They required great numbers to assail the Emperor and his heirs; it is possible they simply did not have the men."

"It takes very little manpower to kill a regular priest who is not wearing armour, not being guarded by anyone and is not even aware that he should be watching out for his life, Martin," Jauffre retorted, his gaze fixed solemnly on him.

"If they were already planning to stage an attack from Oblivion, they may have decided to spare themselves the effort and assumed I would perish during the attack."

"A worthless plan, as you might have left Kvatch in response to the Emperor's death and would have been clear of the danger zone."

"In that case, perhaps they had simply not known where I was in the first place."

"Yes, _precisely_. The only explanation is that they did not attack you there and then because they _did not know where you were_. Instead, the attack happens later – namely, a few hours after the _Dunmer_ learns of your whereabouts."

Martin gave Jauffre a startled look, at loss for words. He hesitantly looked down at his own untouched mug of tea, struggling to make sense of it all.

Seeing Martin's somewhat forlorn expression, Jauffre's voice softened slightly as he continued. "There are spells that allow for quick communication. It is admirably elegant in design – the Dunmer passes on the information and the plan is put into motion. By the time she actually arrives there, it is all over and the flames have died down enough for her to play the valiant hero who arrives just when all hope has been lost. I can see that you have become attached to her, Martin, and I sympathise. It is truly cruel that the person you almost worshipped for her heroic deeds was responsible for the disaster in the first place and manipulated your admiration of her like that, to boot. She may have saved what remained of the citizens of Kvatch, Martin, but none of them would have died in the first place had she not played her part in this dark plan, and..." Jauffre's voice stumbled. "...and had_ I_ not told her," he added under his breath with unexpected bitterness, but Martin was too distracted to dwell on that.

Not willing to hold the sharp gaze that he knew was picking him apart for all possible merits and deficiencies as future Emperor, Martin stared down into his mug, the smooth surface of the liquid rippling as he tilted the cup.

Lee, a spy? The idea was difficult to absorb. It was not strictly impossible, and yet it seemed so difficult to reconcile the concept of a two-faced treacherous assassin infiltrator with the image of Liallan – direct, practical, bluntly honest and yet not without a sensitive side... It was hard to imagine her as someone deceptive, someone capable of putting on such an act. She seemed one to avoid unpleasant truths by omission or by glaring until the subject was abandoned – certainly not someone so horribly manipulative.

The glaring flaw with that kind of thinking was that the very quality of appearing to be beyond all doubt was exactly what marked a master of deception, in the first place.

Suddenly, the image of that Bosmer who had visited him before the attack – and _during _it, in far different attire – came unbidden to his mind. That Bosmer was one of the assassins and must have been sent to confirm his location before launching the attack, Martin realised. Almost as if they had suddenly received word from a new source and were eager to investigate that new lead, he thought with a sinking feeling. What was this but not a perfect example of his judgement failing him? – even though he had known,_ known_ that the Bosmer was a Daedra worshipper, he could not bring himself to think ill of him. Against all logic, he really _was_ optimistic in his assessment of people – which was something else_ Lee_ had criticised him for, and was it not against her interest to do that if she were trying to deceive him? He no longer knew what made sense and what didn't.

He did not want to hurt others out of paranoia, that was true. He had told her as much the day before. What had slipped his mind at the time, Martin realised with a flash of shame and anger at himself, was that there was far more than his own guilty conscience riding on his decisions. He was going to be Emperor now, with both power and responsibility over the Empire and all of its people – again, something Lee had tried to make him understand.

And _again_, an attempt she had _failed_ to make when it was her life and freedom on the line, instead simply thanking him for his trust. Dissecting the information with logic and reasoning brought him no more certainty than trust in his instincts did.

"This is still far from definitive," Martin finally muttered, looking up at Jauffre, who had busied himself during Martin's moments of contemplation by shuffling through some papers. The Breton raised his piercing gaze to study Martin carefully.

"Few things are. I am glad, forever, that you have actually come to consider this possibility in spite of your preconceptions – glad both for yourself and for the Empire," Jauffre said, a barely noticeable tone of smugness in his voice. "As Emperor, your power is unrivaled – you could order me to let the wolf go or release the dark elf from her task and I would be obliged to obey, but whether it would be best for you or for the Empire would be ultimately a thing of chance. It is good to see you have the wisdom to avoid such pitfalls."

"Nothing has changed," Martin insisted, making Jauffre's expression tense again. "You still do not have any evidence, only a collection of hints and coincidences that may just as easily have a completely different explanation, one that is less likely but possible nevertheless – or perhaps one that has never even occurred to us because we do not have sufficient knowledge of our enemies – yet. I will not permit her to be mistreated. Unless you actually manage to prove her guilt...."

_Perhaps not even then?_

He sighed, feeling tired despite having just woken up.

"Then I shall do my best not to disappoint... Martin," Jauffre drawled. "Now, if you would permit me to change the subject, there are things regarding the current status of Blades in the Empire that must be brought to your attention. For obvious reasons, they are not to be spoken of to outsiders. The Dunmer, incidentally, happens to be one such outsider, since she neglected to take me up on the offer to join our Order. Do we understand each other, Martin?"

"Certainly, Jauffre," Martin replied with a sigh. As Jauffre began to delve into numbers and figures, Martin could not quite tear his mind from this very troublesome matter. She was a friend and he had trouble thinking of her outside of the usual frame of "friend". A double-crossing spy... No, that simply did not fit with the kind of person she was. By Akatosh, how could he even question her? Her performance during the reclamation of the Kvatch castle was indication enough. She was not evil, he had seen her eagerness to save people if the chance presented itself. Providing, of course, that she did not need to go too far out of her way for that... or at least that was what she claimed. But no, her rescue of Menien and her concern for the injured soldiers spoke of a good heart underneath all that ash.

_And yet..._

Frowning, Martin realised that he had been holding his mug in his hands for goodness knows how long without even touching it. Raising it to his lips, he finally took a sip, wincing slightly at the flavour. It was somewhat too strong and bitter for his taste, and it had gone cool. He took another gulp, then broke into a coughing fit.

"Martin? Are you alright?" Jauffre asked, half-rising from his chair in readiness to aid him should the need arise.

"Yes, fine, thank you," Martin grimaced. "Do continue."

"As you wish, Martin."

Yet even as Jauffre shared the troubling and shocking news of the catastrophe that had befallen the Emperor's most loyal servants in the Empire, Martin could not stop thinking of the conundrum that presented itself to him and this Dunmer whom he had known for a matter of hours and yet had called "friend" with such certainty. He belatedly realised how hypocritical it was of him to criticise Jauffre for trusting a Blade over an escaped prisoner, for if anyone could be faulted for not choosing his friends carefully enough, it was him – former priest and Emperor-to-be.

Whether he had been too trusting, whether Kvatch could have been saved...

Martin silently gulped down his tea, for that was the less bitter brew to taste.

xxx

The footsteps were light, but not light enough, and splashed audibly as the prey waded through the grimy shallow water flooding the chamber. A pipe seemed to have burst somewhere and with the Emperor's death things were currently too chaotic to allow perfect maintenance. There was humour in the concept that Uriel's death could further work against his cause in such subtle ways. Rubicus waited in the shadows until the prey disappeared through the exit at the other side of the chamber and then followed it, trusting the noise from the gushing pipes in the next chamber to conceal his approach from the ears of his target.

The Emperor's death had had other effects on the city, of course. Evening had barely begun to set in when he had braved the stench of the sewers a short while ago, and yet the streets had been nearly empty. Where they would have been filled with fleet errand boys, old ladies taking their walks, eager customers and busy merchandise stalls, there were only a few cautious groups here and there, keeping together and conversing in low voices. The presence of the Watch had become more prominent, but also more chaotic - they were now more keen on charging off somewhere to investigate anything that seemed suspicious rather than on maintaining their position and providing a reliable presence. And they moved in larger groups now, which meant a lesser chance of being surprised by a quiet-footed lone guardsman or two.

Many beggars in the city as well as the vast majority of those populating the docks had already felt the effects of this burst of activity. A fair number had been dragged away to prison to be put and re-put on probation again, courtesy of Hieronymus Lex. Rubicus suspected that the entire thing had been orchestrated simply to occupy the Watch and make it seem like they were doing something, rather than leave them to face their own powerlessness in matters that were _actually_ important – namely, the oh so _mysterious_ assassins responsible for so much trouble. Rounding another corner to keep his prey in sight, Rubicus stifled a chuckle. The Watch were a bunch of bumbling, thief-obsessed fools without a shred of competency, run by an idiot who couldn't have been more fixated on catching the Grey Fox if he were in love with him.

Things would change soon enough.

Keeping his eye on the prey, Rubicus stalked through the dank tunnel, absently noticing that the air was somewhat fresher here. He he had been hunting for hours and had not shied from following his prey into the most unpleasant, foul-smelling and tedious places. He smiled as he studied the distant figure. His hunt was coming to an end and he would be reaping the rewards soon enough.

These creatures were a blight upon the world, he had understood that well enough. The teachings spoke the strangest things, and yet there was so much truth to be found in their tattered and bloodied pages. The thing he was hunting was a dangerous animal, but ultimately a dying breed. Very soon its kind would be extinct and Rubicus reveled in this opportunity to accelerate the process.

The circumstances were perfect now. A dark passage was ahead, the light filtering through from above failing to penetrate, and the path towards it was clear of water and would allow a silent approach. He could already see himself showing off his latest trophy as he recounted his adventure to his comrades.

As his prey stopped in front of the passage to fumble with the shutters on the lantern once more, Rubicus slipped forward. Stepping carefully, he advanced on his prey with a practiced grace. He had already killed so many of such creatures, and in circumstances far more challenging than this – on many occasions he had been outnumbered, injured, and lacking appropriate cover, and yet he had prevailed. One more to add to the tally.

As the shutter came off, light from the lantern flooded the tunnel ahead and turned the figure of the muscular Redguard in front of him into a perfectly outlined silhouette, the ornate Akaviri katana at its hip glinting dully. Rubicus smiled as his fingers tingled, a Daedric dagger materialising in his firm grip.

As he closed in for the kill, his only thought was of an observation he had made hours ago; that the prey was not wearing armour, leaving the nape of its neck exposed and vulnerable.

He struck, the light dancing on the dagger as the lantern twitched.

An agonised cry rang through the sewers.


End file.
